


The Ringmaster

by hahaharley



Series: Bad Jokes [3]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Action/Adventure, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Gen, Organized Crime, Psychological Drama, Sequel, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:29:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 133,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1995120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hahaharley/pseuds/hahaharley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harley wants the Joker. The Joker wants Batman. Batman's busy trying to corral Gotham's newest crime lord, Oswald Cobblepot… and Cobblepot seems strangely invested in Harley. It's a circus out there in Gotham's underworld, but fortunately for Harley Quinn, she's got the best guide a girl could ask for—even if he <i>does</i> seem to be trying to get her killed half the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> It's been five years and a day since the completion of Bad Jokes, three years since Malady, and I've been promising a follow-up—basically, I've been taking my sweet time (which is a casual way of saying that it can be hard to keep promises in a timely fashion when one is busy writing an original novel, getting a degree, finding a career, and adding sisters-in-law to the family every year/trying to find time to visit said family). It's been a busy few years, and very fruitful ones, but I've keenly felt my neglect of this arena and all of you. When I said I was going to write a full-length follow-up, I always meant it, and so finally, I'm here to make good. All there is left to say is that I thoroughly hope it'll prove worth the wait (I have my doubts, which I'm trying to squash) and give you some housekeeping notes.
> 
> Now, someday I'll draw a timeline of approximate events starting with the Joker's first appearance in the Dark Knight and going on through all the Bad Jokesverse stories, but for now: this story takes place about six-seven months after Malady. Harley has known the Joker for about a year now. This 'verse is skewed slightly in that it splits somewhat from Nolan's canon post Dark Knight—as of right now, these stories are incompatible with the events of The Dark Knight Rises and Batman is not retired (which makes his life very difficult given that people are firing at him from both sides).
> 
> Given that the events of this story are related from Harley's first person perspective with occasional third person sections told from the Joker's point of view, I encourage everyone to bear in mind that neither Harley Quinn nor the Joker are reliable narrators and that it's a given that they'll twist the truth to serve their purposes.
> 
> I'm breaking my usual rule in that I'm beginning to give chapters their final edit and post them before I have a complete rough draft, so that might result in some slight continuity errors that I'll beg your pardon for.
> 
> I think that's about all for now, so go forth and (hopefully) enjoy.

He opened his eyes.

His mouth tasted like metal. The room was pitch black, but the air around him felt familiar, and he laid on a mattress that smelled like him—he knew he must be securely at headquarters. He didn't know how long he'd been out, and lazily, his hand drifted up to touch his throbbing bicep, wounded from a close graze with a copper's bullet.

The touch stung, but he could tell from the tacky and clotted feel of the blood on his fingertips combined with the raw, almost concave ache of his empty stomach that he had been out for at least a few hours. Exactly how long he'd been asleep was not important.

He'd been having a dream. Normally, his dreams melted away like cobwebs upon waking, as elusive as the details of his entirely irrelevant past, but for whatever reason, this one stuck around. _She_ had wanted to go shopping ("to pick out some curtains for the new hideout, silly") and he'd joined her on a whim, always willing to start the day with a good evisceration. The whole thing had culminated in her holding out two swatches (he wondered vaguely where he'd picked up that term but didn't care enough to trace its roots in his brain) for his perusal, chirping "Eggshell or ivory, Mr. J?" and him trying to make her understand that he didn't give a _dead rat's ass,_ to just _choose_ already so he could use the one she _didn't_ want to wipe the sales clerk's blood and flecks of guts off of his shoes, good footwear wasn't cheap, didn't she _know_ that?

As the memory of the dream faded, he stretched out, feeling a languid satisfaction in the ache of under-rested muscles and the sting of half-healed wounds, and then reached out absently to the space beside him. He frowned when his fingertips met nothing but cool sheets, and he felt around for a second before realizing that his quiet, erratic breathing was the only sound in the room. That… made no sense. She needed _so much_ sleep; she was always there when he fell asleep and always there when he woke up, having given up on trying to match him in the first couple of weeks.

He felt vaguely betrayed by the emptiness of the bed—not because he needed or necessarily even _wanted_ her there, but because he didn't recall having given her permission to change her routine. Since he didn't immediately have anything better to do, he rolled out of bed and went hunting for her. Or some food. Whichever he found first. (He kind of hoped it would be food.)

He exited the black room, went downstairs, and squinted at the fluorescent glare lighting the main room of the new hideout. Taking as little notice of the assembled henchmen as he would a dead body in the room (that is to say, none at all) he went straight to the connected kitchen, searching through the cabinets until he stumbled upon a huge bag of what looked like beef jerky. He pulled it open and tossed a piece into his mouth, testing, then nodded when he had confirmed to his satisfaction that it _was_ jerky and took a handful, gnawing noisily on it as he turned and leaned back against the wall to look through the room for her. He checked the corners and the shadows, checked to make sure she wasn't hiding behind anybody, and when he still failed to locate her, he looked at the nearest henchman.

The guy felt eyes on him and nervously looked up, swallowing. "What's up, boss?"

The Joker licked his lips, getting a vague, familiar feeling that his voice may have rotted away as he slept, but no—it came out just fine, if high and creaky as usual, when he asked, "Where is she?"

"Where's _who,_ boss?"

The Joker squinted sharply and shook his head from side to side a little, _can you believe this guy?_ As if there was ever more than one woman allowed in the hideout. Well, okay, hostages sometimes, but they weren't really _people,_ so they didn't count. Women _complicated_ things, women got _squeamish_ and _screamy_ and _cried_ when they got hit. In fact, during those first couple of weeks with her, he'd thought every day about cutting her throat and dumping her on Arkham's doorstep, at least until she'd proven that she wouldn't cause ripples with the boys and that she would only cry on _special_ occasions. These days, he only thought about killing her once a week. Usually. He didn't think he needed to voice this thought.

Instead, he said, "Uhhh… how many _she_ s do you usually see around here? Where's _Harley_?"

Understanding dawned, followed quickly by confusion. The guy spoke in a very careful tone that the Joker immediately loathed. It was the way _normal_ people talked to crazy people, and not only was he _not_ crazy, but he _hated_ "normal." However, what the henchman had to say momentarily stemmed the Joker's annoyance. "She… she's at Arkham, boss. Don't you remember?"

The Joker blinked. No, he did not remember. _When did that happen?_ he thought, vaguely irritated by her lack of consideration. He should leave her in there until she found a way out, just to teach her a lesson about being careless enough to get caught. That's how _he'd_ always had to learn.

The guy looked vaguely encouraged by the fact that this news didn't result in a knife in his guts, so he kept going: "She's been there since the beginning of summer, a couple'a months ago, remember? You made the call to leave her for the cops."

The Joker blinked again. This was news to him. In fact, he could have sworn he remembered seeing her flitting around the new hideout, which they'd just moved into last week, a vague red outline always humming away in the corner of his eye—but those memories could just as well have been his idle brain inventing entertainment. He'd always had an… _overactive_ imagination, and he was accepting of it so long as it didn't distract him from anything really _important_.

In fact, now that he thought about it, he remembered bending down over a wounded little blonde thing lying curled and bleeding on the pavement, pinching her cheek as the sirens drew closer and then climbing into the car and leaving her to the GPD's tender lovin' care. He didn't remember _why_ anymore—details like that were unimportant in the face of the grand scheme—but he was _sure_ he'd had a good reason.

That was then, though, and he frowned thoughtfully as he realized that he didn't _want_ her in Arkham right now. Like it or not, Harley had survived in proximity to him long enough at this point to both understand and see the wisdom in playing by his rules, which made her an asset. Things were shifting fast, and he could use a decent face card in his hand. She could go back to the padded cells and ineffective antipsychotic meds _later_ if she wanted to, no skin off his nose, but right now, he wanted her _here._

He turned to look for some coffee. He had a breakout to organize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are interested, I have a link in my profile to the blog for this series-- mostly it deals with answering questions, posting submitted fanart, and posting content (like music) related to the chapters as we go along. I've got some reworking of the next chapter that I need to do, as well as scrambling to finish the rough draft in general so I can fix up all the little missing details before you get to them, but I'll try to have the next installment for you within a week.


	2. swear to keep your mouth shut

_Bite your tongue, swear to keep  
Keep your mouth shut_  
_Make up something_  
_Make up something good…_

 **-Queens of the Stone Age,** _**Burn the Witch ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgALNiraOew))** _

I sat with my forehead pressed against the window and looked out at the rain.

Arkham didn't have a lot of bright spots, but the window seats in the common room weren't so bad. On evenings when I had been "behaving," I was allowed to come out and "socialize" with the other inmates. I had no interest in most of my fellow prisoners, given the fact that half of them were only considered docile because they were constantly drugged (which resulted in an unseemly amount of drool and vastly dull conversational skills) and the other half were crass, lewd, unintelligent letches, criminals of the clumsiest and most unsophisticated breed.

I made a habit, therefore, of retiring to the furthest window seat from the circle of chairs and couches in the center of the room and sitting there looking out over the city for as long as they'd let me. The windows were barred, of course, but if I put my face close enough to them, it was as if the bars weren't there, and because Arkham Asylum was located in the Narrows, there was no shortage of police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks howling past with sirens blaring and lights flashing. I took comfort in the sight and sound of emergency vehicles these days. On the outside, they were an alarm, harbingers of trouble. Inside, they just reminded me of him.

"Brooding again?"

Ah, yes, I had no interest in _most_ of my fellow prisoners—that left me a little loophole, in which I placed Jonathan Crane, former teacher and current best frenemy (though he always gave me a particularly judgmental look whenever I used that term in reference to him—"Harley, I am thirty-three years old, and _you_ , I might point out, are twenty-seven. I think we're above such kitschy slang, don't you?"). While he had a bigger-than-average attitude problem and was prone to sudden psychotic breaks that typically left _someone_ with a painfully bruised neck, he was also the closest thing to a kindred soul I had in this hellhole.

He joined me on the window seat without being asked, and I pulled my feet up to make room for him, hugging my knees to my chest and shooting him a particularly unpleasant look. "I am not brooding."

"Oh, you're _always_ brooding." He didn't have his glasses on today. Sometimes he left them off—I imagine it was because his vision wasn't terrible up close and because he didn't really _need_ to see Ostrich Taylor blowing his usual series of massive spit bubbles in the far corner.

For all that Jonathan projected a sense of cold dignity, at least on his good days, he had proven himself capable of relentlessly sticking to "are not," "are too" arguments, all the while managing to _maintain_ that illusion of dignity, so I didn't bother contradicting him again. I just rested my head against the cool bars again and looked out at the sodden gray city, _his_ city, and felt the familiar itch of agitation in response to its simultaneous nearness and unavailability.

"Rumor has it your therapy's not going well."

I rolled my eyes around and gave him a look _. Come on._ He showed me his palms and shrugged. "I didn't say I _expected_ it to. I was just making a note."

"You keeping _notes_ on me?"

"Well, I have to occupy my time somehow, and your case is much more interesting than… art therapy."

"Is it."

"Well, it's amusing to see how thoroughly you frustrate the staff doctors." I didn't respond, still looking out the window, but he must have seen the trace of a smile at my lips, because he elaborated without being asked: "You have enough of an understanding of the field to comprehend that many of them are primarily eager to use you as a tool to get inside of the mind of that partner of yours, so you circumvent their intentions by simply refusing to talk about him. Unfortunately for your treatment, your madness is tied singularly to the man in question, the one subject you refuse to touch. There's no starting that path to recovery if you aren't willing to discuss _him,_ and so you've got them in quite the bind regarding your particular case."

I nodded, vaguely gratified by his appreciation, but the smile disappeared at the mention of "that partner of mine." Jonathan noticed. I could feel him watching me, studying me like everyone did, but since he was a sort-of friend I didn't follow the increasingly common violent impulse that advised me to lash out and catch him under the chin with my foot. After a second, he asked abruptly, "Do you really think he's coming for you?"

I glanced sharply at him and nearly laughed despite myself. Even without the glasses, even dressed in an orange Arkham jumpsuit and with his hair rumpled in a way that made him look rather like a little boy, everything else about him—from his tone to his posture to the intensity in his eyes—radiated "headshrink." I shrugged delicately and looked back to the window. Jonathan and I might be on good terms, but the single rule that governed all of my Arkham interactions— _don't ever speak the truth about the Joker_ —had kept me focused and safe from their prying so far, and I hardly intended to suspend it now just because I was partial to him.

He went on. "Don't bother; I know you won't answer. I also know that you believe wholeheartedly that he will. Or do you sit at that window every day because you're watching for the Goodyear blimp?"

"That's funny. You're funny."

"How's the wrist?" he asked, wisely (for once) picking up on my warning tone and changing the subject.

Instinctively, I flexed the fingers of my right hand. "It's fine. Aches every now and again, but that's normal enough—that'll go away in a month or two."

"Broken many wrists before?" he questioned, too innocently.

I shot him a look. "I'm a gymnast. What do _you_ think?"

"My, but we're in a mood today."

"You're _baiting_ me, Jonathan."

"I seem to remember you being in a mood yesterday as well."

"Yeah, you were baiting me _then,_ too."

"As far as I've been able to tell, it's the best way to pull you outside of yourself. If you spend all your time brooding and refusing to speak to anyone, they'll declare you catatonic, and as a psychiatrist, let me tell you, you will _not_ like the measures they'll take in an effort to _cure_ you should that happen."

" _Former_ psychiatrist," I snarked. He gave me a decidedly unpleasant look, and I privately thought that that was rich of him, teasing me nonstop and then acting all wounded when I said _one_ little thing that displeased him. I changed subjects. "So you're saying you're just nagging at me to _help_ me? Your motives are altruistic, is that it?"

"Well, let's not jump to conclusions. I simply find it beneficial to keep you nearby," he said lazily as his gaze drifted over the gathering of inmates. "Without you to talk to, I'd have to listen to Scott repeat that exhaustive list of his underage victims—it's alphabetized now, by the way. That or watch Peterson piss himself. If they would let me just stay in my cell during _social hour,_ I'd feel no need to keep you out of trouble, but _no._ "

"You really know how to flatter a girl," I said wryly. "You know, you could always just attack a nurse. I'm sure that would help you 'lose your social privileges.'"

"Thank you, no," he said arrogantly. "You might not mind being manhandled by big, sweaty men, but it's not to _my_ liking."

I couldn't keep from letting loose an ugly snort at that. "Sounds like denial to me," I snarked as soon as I managed to recover from the undignified lapse.

He gave me a disapproving look and stood up. "I should move on. Nurse Collins is starting to look worried. She thinks I'm a bad influence on you—haven't _you_ got them fooled."

"Where's the common sense in this place?" I complained, ignoring the dig, which was true enough. "They encourage us to 'socialize,' but when we start making friends, they worry that we're bad for each other. Would it kill them to make up their minds?"

"Don't you wish we could find out," he murmured absently, and drifted away without a goodbye, leaving me to the rain and the sound of sirens.

* * *

I did not understand quite how much of a shithole Arkham was until I was interred there. Even working there, going there every day—I'd been insulated from the worst, could shake off the white walls and green linoleum and sickly fluorescent lighting whenever I went home for the night. That changed when the choice to come and go as I pleased was taken from me. The asylum's halls carried a sickness that seemed to cling to me, and without time away to scour the contamination from my skin, I feared the long-term effect the place might have on me.

I don't think anyone really questioned my incarceration at the madhouse. There was some threatening throwing around of the term "women's correctional facility" by police visiting me in my securely-guarded hospital room when I was first arrested, but they cut that out as soon as it became evident that I didn't give a shit. I think even the _prosecutor_ at my hearing wasn't convinced that any woman who would willingly live and work with the Joker could possibly be in her right mind.

(I may have influenced the decision inadvertently when my scumbag public defender got a little too fresh and touched the inside of my thigh under the table. I reached up with my cuffed hands, grabbed the back of his head, and slammed his face down on the table with all of my might, breaking his nose in front of God and the judge and everybody. I knew it was inadvisable even at the time, but what was I supposed to do, sit there and smile and pretend like my lawyer _wasn't_ a huge creep?)

Long story short, it surprised no one when they decided I belonged at Arkham under the tender loving care of my former-colleague-now-asylum-director, David Wilson. I couldn't help but smile when they passed the ruling—I couldn't help it, the irony was _funny_ —and I could immediately taste the fear in the room. From judge to prosecutor to spectator, they all had a fleeting second of apprehension— _was this the right move?_ They weren't afraid of me—oh no—but the company I kept was a bit more terrifying. Not that I had any assurance that he planned to punish them for daring to touch his things (I rather doubted it; he had other things on his plate) but everyone knew whose side I was on. Their fear made me feel better.

Once I was confined to Arkham, things settled rapidly into a routine. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, meds with all three. Daily showers with the small handful of other female inmates, none of whom were big or mean enough to pose a threat to me. Art therapy, visits to the common room, two hours of exercise weekly. Lights out at nine. And, most tedious of all, hour-long "therapy" sessions four days a week. It was stable, it was scheduled, I had structure, and I was so bored I wanted to claw my own eyes out—or better yet, an orderly's eyes. That oughta break up the monotony.

My only solace was in knowing that the Joker had never been subjected to the indignity that was "social hour." He'd been a very high-security patient, and as such, had been limited essentially to his cell, the showers, and his therapy sessions. Me, I wasn't so lucky—they'd never proved that I'd killed anyone (and I wasn't about to go confessing), and it was pretty obvious that I wasn't the one with the master plan, so I was shit out of luck as far as getting them to keep me isolated "as a safety measure."

That wasn't to say I didn't get into my share of trouble. Indeed, I started my stint at Arkham with a considerable bang.

Typically, when a patient is first admitted to Arkham, their arrival effects a sort of therapist shuffle, wherein the powers that be attempt to choose the best doctor for the newcomer. They start with whoever's readily available, and often, this works—most patients are willing to cooperate, because they know when they're pronounced "cured," they'll be released. They can't be cured if they don't work with a doctor, and often, one is as good as the other to them.

However, things don't always work out that way. For a patient's therapy to progress, there needs to be a certain level of comfort and confidence from patient to doctor, if not outright trust, and that doesn't always happen with the first doctor to come along. In extreme cases like the Joker's a patient can go through a dozen therapists before finding someone they're willing to accept.

I had no interest in being _cured_. The simplest way to shut down their game was to refuse to play it, and so with my first two doctors, I sat silent and unresponsive. I wasn't rude, I wasn't violent—I just wasn't interested, and I sat there dead-eyed, totally ignoring their vague implications that I would never get out of there if this was the way I chose to play it.

When the first two doctors failed to get through to me _,_ Arkham apparently decided that a more proactive approach was needed. They sent in Dr. Matthew Porter.

I was sitting there, just minding my own business, prepared to sit silently through another session, when he blew in. He had none of that slow steadiness common to doctors accustomed to dealing with volatile patients; his movements were erratic and his voice was loud as he pulled out the chair opposite me and said, "Harleen, I'm Dr. Porter and I'll be working with you from now on."

Slowly, I raised an eyebrow. Bluster, confidence, assumed familiarity… I could tell already that my typical approach of _sit-there-like-a-dead-thing_ probably wouldn't work so well in this case. This guy was out to get under my skin.

Well, fine, but I wasn't going to shoulder the blame if he got trapped there.

I watched him in silence as he made a show of flipping impatiently through my file. I judged him to be around my age, with dark hair combed back away from his face, lashless blue eyes I thought were a bit amphibian, and thin lips that struck me as being unnaturally red. I took an instant dislike to his face, and flexed the fingers of my right arm, which was at the time in a cast from the incident that landed me in the asylum in the first place. Because of the cast and because I hadn't shown any aggression since that day in court, I was unrestrained, an oversight I thought might come in handy.

"No, no, no," he mumbled as he flipped through the file, finally just shutting it and dropping it on the table, focusing his attention on me. "This won't do at all, Harleen. Consistently antisocial behavior? Unresponsive in therapy? It's as if you _want_ to be here."

He looked like he was planning to go on, but I looked him in the eye and, for the first time while a therapy session was in progress, I spoke: "I don't think it's fair that you get to know _my_ first name when I don't know yours. Makes the forced familiarity seem a little one-sided, you know? And I prefer Harley. You know. Just FYI."

I saw a half-surprised, half-triumphant gleam in his eyes for a split second before he shut it down. He was very good at regulating his expression, very quick, very pro, but at the time of my incarceration, I had been living in close quarters to the Joker for the better part of a year. Identifying microexpressions that lasted no longer than a quarter-second could mean the difference between getting out of the way quickly enough to avoid being stuck with a short-bladed knife and bleeding for the next hour, so I'd become rather adept at reading faces, and the average person had nothing on the Joker. Dr. Porter was easy.

"Well," he said generously, "since you're being so kind as to _respond_ for once, my name is Matthew. I think I'll stick with Harleen for you, though."

"Let me guess— _Harley_ isn't healthy."

"It's the moniker the Joker gave you when he manipulated you into performing criminal acts."

"Actually, it's been my nickname ever since I was a kid, but since I figure you're a lot less interested in talking about _that_ than about the _Joker,_ why not? What do you want to know?"

He blinked. I'd thrown him off-guard. "What do I—?"

"What do you want to know about him?" I asked patiently, lacing my fingers together on the tabletop, biding my time. "Everyone knows _I'm_ not the interesting one. _He's_ the one you're really after, am I right? Examining me is the closest you'll get to examining him; why else would you be here wasting your time?"

He cleared his throat. I imagine he'd expected defensiveness instead of offensive tactics, and I watched him with the barest little smile as he said, "Harleen, I'm here to do what I can to help you. I'm here because I have a genuine interest in assisting you as you work through whatever problems you have and earn your freedom."

I waited.

"However—" _bingo_ —"the best way to _do_ that is to discuss the catalyst of your initial trauma. In this case, you're right—it's undeniably the Joker."

"Mmhmm," I said knowingly. "Dress it up if you like; it boils down to the same thing. So again—what would you like to know?"

I could see the struggle playing out on his face as clear as the harsh light of day. The doctor in him said _no, patience, if you confirm her suspicions you won't have her trust and that could hurt you in the long run,_ while the opportunist in him said urgently _no, she's offering, and this is your chance to get some insight into the Joker's mind, possibly your_ _only_ _chance._

The opportunist won in a matter of seconds, and with his decision to pursue that line of questioning, his professionalism crumbled slightly. He moved his chair forward slightly, placed his palms flat on the table, and, unable to fully conceal his curiosity, he asked, "How would you describe your relationship with the Joker?"

I pulled a thoughtful face. One of the _other_ benefits of living with Joker was that he read faces like no one I'd ever known—it was one of the tactics that had contributed to his reputation of being inhuman, a mind-reader—and though I rarely (if ever) managed to _really_ fool him, I was always working on it, on blanking my face or faking emotion. Regular people were _much_ easier. "That's a pretty big question. You mean domestically? How do we decide whose turn it is to cook, who does the laundry, that sort of stuff? Socially? Whether we flip a coin to decide whether to invite the neighbors to dinner or just save ourselves the hassle and kill them?"

"I—"

"No, you're right, that's more Two-Face's bag." I saw the flash of confusion crossing his face and belatedly recalled that not everyone was privy to the Joker's mutterings. I moved on before he could recover enough to ask questions. "Nah, though. That stuff is boring. I bet I know what you _really_ want. For all that Freud's been virtually discredited, people _do_ tend to fixate on sex, don't they?"

"Harleen," he said firmly, finally recovering and asserting his authority like a good little shrink, "that's enough."

"Oh, come on," I countered. "You _have_ to be curious about the details. Maybe you even want pointers. He must be pretty good for me to stay, isn't that right? You're telling me you haven't wondered whether I'm crazy enough to let him tie me up?"

"Harleen, I'm going to have to terminate this session if you don't regain control of yourself."

"Oh, _shove your control up your ass_ ," I spat, dropping all of the false geniality and letting him see the pure, furious contempt I was feeling."Let me tell you something, _Matthew_ —it doesn't matter if we're talking about sex, doesn't matter if we're talking about the day-to-day. Topic is irrelevant. You're trying to pry into our relationship like a rotten little _voyeur_. You want to talk about me, fine _,_ we'll focus on me—but if you go on like this, trying to get to _him_ through me, then I swear, I'll arrange a _personal_ meeting so you can satisfy your curiosity."

He seemed uncertain as to how to handle this virulent little outburst, and for the first time I saw a flicker of apprehension in those eyes as he realized what, exactly, I was threatening. Regardless of whether either of us thought I actually had the power to follow through, the idea was enough to repulse him into silence, and I stared unblinking at him for a second before adding, "And since we're getting along _so_ well, you should know that while _he's_ the one everyone's scared of, he's taught me a trick or two as well. Maybe you'll remember that after today."

One second I was sitting motionless in the chair across the table from him. The next, I was headed over the table towards him, and as he made an abortive attempt to stand, instinctively lifting his hands to protect his face, I drilled a quick shot to his solar plexus. When he doubled over and dropped his hands to his torso, I aimed a shot at his throat.

Porter was lucky. Because I was crouched on the table and half of my attention was going towards keeping my balance, the blow was a glancing one—if it had been full-force and on target, it could have crushed his trachea. As it was, he just made a horrible gagging sound, and that was when the orderlies finally got inside of the room and intervened, wrestling me off of him and forcing me facedown on a table. Seconds later, I felt a sting at the inside of my elbow and then…

Well, if you've never floated on a sea of Thorazine, I'll just say it's not _unpleasant_ —unless, of course, you're in a mental asylum where you don't trust anyone and where you have no reassurance that they won't just keep you doped up all the time and you need to be conscious and aware and ready in case your boyfriend chooses _that_ week to bust you out. Then it's hell, because despite the fact that it's meant to just level you out emotionally (i.e. turn you into a zombie), there are some things it just can't touch, and instinct is one of those things. At the time, my instinct told me that I needed to stay alert. On Thorazine, I couldn't do that, and vaguely, I knew it. It didn't exactly make for a great trip.

When the sedatives wore off, I was lectured gently but firmly by a nurse, told that I'd lost my social privileges for at least a week, and that until I proved myself capable of "acting like a lady," I'd be restrained during therapy sessions. I made some faces at her when her back was turned, but otherwise gave no indication of my inner belligerence, because I did _not_ want to risk being doped up again.

I _did_ ask, innocently, about Dr. Porter and was told that he took an extended weekend. I was more than a little gratified by this.

After that encounter, the rules changed a little bit. Even though I was restrained, therapists were a lot more cautious with me, and in turn, I was never overly aggressive with them. They were forever trying to find ways to get me to talk about the Joker without actually seeming like they were trying to get me to talk about the Joker, and I simply stuck to my guns—I would not talk about him, not truthfully, anyway, while I was within the Asylum's walls.

But I couldn't go attacking every doctor who pried anymore, either. After all, I had a job to do. I had to stay away from the sedatives, had to keep my ear to the ground and wait for him to make a move. I believed wholeheartedly that he would not leave me here forever. At some point, he would come crashing in to bust me out, and it was my duty to be ready for him when he did. I owed him that much.

Until then, all I could do was keep my nose clean and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of M. Gustave from The Grand Budapest Hotel, "If there's one thing we've learned from penny dreadfuls, it's that when you find yourself in a place like this, you must never be a candy ass; you've got to prove yourself from day one." With that in mind I encourage y'all to remember that ArkhamHarley consists of her most self-protective, resentful, feral characteristics and that you'll be seeing much more of the sociable, cheerful, loving young lady you're perhaps more accustomed to once she feels a bit... safer. In the meantime, enjoy those rough edges!
> 
> Dr. Porter was written while August Diehl's face floated in my mind (especially the look he was rocking during Inglourious Basterds). There are approximately two (maybe three?) references to the film Bronson (particularly Charlie's stint in the mental asylum) peppered throughout this chapter; God bless you if you can find them. Aaand I'll be posting the chapter's song on the blog shortly for those of you who haven't heard it and are curious. Also, I hope you enjoyed the return of our favorite snarky frenemy, Jonny Crane, because I did.
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who commented, left kudos, or both-- any indication of support is MOST welcome and I thoroughly appreciate it.
> 
> Next up: more Arkham and you learn part of how Harley got there to begin with. Don't worry, we won't be stuck in the asylum forever, but there are a couple of things to look at before she gets tossed right back in the game. Until then, here's hoping you enjoyed Harley's return!


	3. i'd like to poke them in their prying eyes

_I'd like to poke them in their prying eyes_  
_with things they never see_  
_if it smacked them in their temples_

 **-Arctic Monkeys,** _**The Fire and the Thud ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VGlhSSP4nTk))** _

Shortly after Crane left me there at the window, my peace was disturbed once again. An orderly approached me, and I glanced from the window to his face for just long enough to see that he looked vaguely familiar.

"Come on, Miss Quinzel," he said, affable but firm. "It's Friday. You know what that means."

I remembered then that I liked him. Most of the orderlies were forceful, superior—this one was always polite, good with a needle but not too hasty, but I didn't know his name. I made a point not to learn any of their names. You never knew who might be sacrificed as collateral damage in the event of a breakout; it would be foolish to get attached, like making pets of chickens on a poultry farm. I'd learned this lesson the hard way with the henchmen. Still, I found myself idly hoping that this one would be away from the asylum when the trouble inevitably began.

I didn't like Friday's sessions, but I didn't make a fuss, instead giving him a hard little smile as I slipped off of the window sill. Spitting and cussing was the quickest way towards crippling sedation; I might as well submit with good grace.

Once we reached the examination room, he motioned for me to put my hands together. I was still working off the Porter incident; they no longer shackled my feet but I still had to wear the cuffs. As he cinched them—gently, I noticed—I watched him and said, "You're a big fella."

"So I hear."

"You're not looking for a job, are you? You know, we're always hiring."

He finished with the cuffs and met my eyes, and I read wry amusement and a little bit of apprehension in his. "Thank you, ma'am, but I think I'm fine right here."

"Well, think about it. I like you."

He pointed at the chair. I grinned cheekily at him, spun around, and plunked down as he left the room.

The silence settled over my shoulders, and I was comforted by it. The asylum wasn't much for quiet—even at night in the cells, the air was punctuated by the sounds of other prisoners, crying, moving, talking to themselves, working through night terrors… it made it difficult to imagine oneself away. Here, this quiet calm before sessions, was the best part about Arkham. Here, I could close my eyes and imagine myself back home with him.

The peace, as always, was shattered abruptly by the opening door, and I took a deep breath through my nose before opening my eyes. By then, Dr. David Wilson had taken his seat opposite me.

I made no secret of the fact that I hated these sessions more than most, but he insisted. I thought it was a severe conflict of interest; he thought it could only be good for me to have accountability to someone from my "former life." I'd reminded him of the history behind the asylum, of the way our illustrious founder had "counseled" the man who'd murdered his wife and daughter right into the electric chair, and Wilson had just looked incredibly wounded.

That was the worst part, really—looking up to see that wounded look in his eyes, like a dog that had been kicked. Maybe once upon a time, that look would have inspired pity in me, but now, it just infuriated me beyond measure.

I had once quite liked Wilson. That was before he'd come around poking and prodding and shoving his nose into my business. (It was also before I'd put a knife in him, but that was mostly irrelevant.)

"How are you, Harley?" he asked quietly, making the first move, as always.

I wasn't interested in playing ball. Instead of responding directly to his question, I just stared at him and asked levelly, "Why do we keep doing this, David?"

He didn't seem put off by the question. Regarding me with dead-eyed calm, he quietly replied, "We're doing it for your sake. We're doing it because you're unwell, and because I hope that eventually, you'll see that. After all—"

"Recognizing that you have a problem is the first step to recovery," I said, baring my teeth in a not-quite smile. He sat quietly, wisely sensing my irritability and refraining from provoking it further, and I let the quasi-smile drop, leaving my face bare and dead. Quietly, I said, "I don't _have_ a problem, David."

Staring back at me, equally deathly calm, Wilson said, "You put a _knife_ in my arm, Harley."

"You were in my way."

"That doesn't sound like a highly illogical reason to _stab someone_ to you?"

"Not if you know what's important to you," I snapped.

"Well, what _is_ important to you, then?" he challenged.

"That night? It was getting through that door you were blocking."

He stared at me for a couple of seconds, long enough for me to notice a look in his eyes that I'd never seen before—not frustration. Not quite. It was something a little more unnerving, but before I could place it, he glanced down to scribble something on his clipboard. By the time he looked up again, it was tucked neatly away.

"Off to a rough start today," he commented lightly.

"Nothing unusual about that," I sighed, folding my arms over my middle and slouching just about as far down in my chair as I could without falling off.

"Tell me something, Harley. Don't you want to get out of here?"

I took a slow breath before glancing deliberately up into his eyes, not blinking. "Not if it means cutting myself open and forking my guts over for you bloodsuckers to sift through."

"As I recall, you used to be one of those _bloodsuckers,_ " he pointed out dryly.

" _Used to be_ ," I said pointedly.

"Which is one of the factors that makes your situation so… odd." He paused, folding his hands together on the desk. "As a trained psychologist, one would think you'd have recognized the warning signs. Even now, it seems strange that you don't see the problem."

"Well, it's a matter of perspective," I said easily, shrugging. "From a psychologist's perspective, sure. I see problems. I see plenty of them. I can also see how to fix them."

"By _talking_ about him," Wilson interjected.

" _However_ ," I said pointedly, ignoring him, "having spent some time _outside_ of the office, it's become quite clear to me that a psychologist's perspective is cripplingly narrow. _Everything_ has to be dissected, labels neatly attached- you know, for a field meant to detect and tend to abnormalities, there's surprisingly little allowance for the existence of the _other_."

"The other," Wilson repeated, watching me patiently. "What exactly do you mean, _other_?"

He was considerably more experienced than Dr. Porter, and so if he hoped he had finally found the way in, he didn't show it. Still, I was on guard, careful not to let the discussion spin away from me and into the forbidden topic.

"I mean the indefinable. I mean minds that defy study, minds that call for… I don't know, a customized diagnosis, one that will only ever fit them, because they're not quite antisocial, not quite borderline, not quite schizophrenic—nothing fits. And yet psychology tries to cram them into tiny little pre-existing cubes, you see? It's inflexible."

"I see," said Wilson slowly. "And… what minds are you talking about, exactly?"

I paused, staring at him, then caught the edge of my tongue between my molars and grinned disingenuously at him. "Minds like Batman's, for instance."

I saw his lips twitch in exasperation. "Harley."

"Look, psychology is _flawed._ In theory, it's good for the everyday mental kinks that people suffer, but it can't keep up with what's actually happening in real life, David. You're asking me to put my faith in a field that's never seen anything like what's happening in Gotham? _Why_?"

Wilson studied me for a moment, then appeared to reach a decision. He flipped open the folder resting on the desk in front of him. "Well," he said, "the Joker's an enigma, certainly, and I can't speak for Batman, but _you're_ not as difficult to work out. Let's see… I've got obsessive behavior, antisocial tendencies, Stockholm syndrome, now apparently delusions of grandeur… what do you think, Harley, am I missing something _indefinable_ in you?"

I didn't take offense; I'd heard it all before. Leaning back, I shrugged. "Hey, sounds just fine for your typical psych black-and-white."

He stared at me, and I was certain that he was going to push further, try to force me to offer a defense, but suddenly, abruptly, he flipped the file shut and stood up. "I think we'll cut today's session short," he said.

I wasn't quite sure how to react. He'd never done this before. He always seemed to want to milk our sessions for every last second.

 _Maybe he's finally had enough of the abuse,_ I thought with wary optimism as he sidestepped the table and went to the door, which buzzed open to accommodate him.

It seemed to take a long time to fall shut—and when it locked into place, the lights went out.

I couldn't help but flinch at the sudden darkness, even though I was half expecting some kind of trick. Darkness outside of the asylum was fine (even welcome, often providing a neat cover under which to perform mischief), but inside… inside that particular establishment, darkness was dangerous.

Unbidden, my mind darted to Jonathan, thinking about his brief term as asylum director, the rumors I'd heard while working there about experiments conducted on unknowing patients, and a chill shot down my spine. I refused to go flying to the door, refused to show just how spooked I was, but I felt a little too insecure to sit _completely_ still, so I straightened up and pulled my knees up to my chest, waiting there for the orderly to come fetch me.

A sudden laugh ripped through the blackness, sharp and choking and instantly recognizable.

I froze. _He's here,_ was my first, uncensored thought, though almost immediately I realized that it was impossible. Defying logic, though, the voice went on: "Where've _you_ been, huh? Why so glum, Haaarley?"

 _Don't say anything,_ I told myself fiercely. _It's a trick._ Still, I couldn't quell my physical response—like a junkie kept too long from a fix, my body began to tremble, and I tightened my arms around my knees to try to control it, to little avail.

"Aren't you feeling… ahh, restless? Why're you still waiting around in this _dreary_ old building?"

I realized that I was forgetting to breathe and pulled in some air, shakily. With oxygen came a bit of clarity; I realized that the words were familiar, patched together from various sessions we'd had when he was my patient at Arkham. It didn't help much—I hadn't heard his voice in months (part of my 'therapy'), so having it tear into me so suddenly while sensually isolated in the dark did a number on me.

The voice started again, and I didn't care who might be watching through the darkness. I screwed my eyes shut and lifted my arms, working around the cuffed wrists to press them so hard against my ears that I couldn't hear anything but the blood flowing.

I sat like that for a while, until from behind my eyelids I saw light and opened my eyes to see that the door was open, the light was on, and the same orderly who brought me here was standing at the door, looking concerned. "Miss Quinzel? They said you wouldn't be through till seven o'clock."

Carefully, as though I might break into pieces if I moved too quickly, I stood from my chair. "Change of plans, apparently," I said, immediately embarrassed by how small and decidedly not-intimidating my voice was but suddenly too drained to fluff up my feathers and try to act tough.

He took a closer look at me and came into the room, quickly taking my elbow. "You're white as a ghost. What'd they do to you?"

"It's nothing," I said faintly. "I just… I'd like to go to my room for the night, please."

He looked at me doubtfully. "You're scheduled for dinner and social time in the cafeteria…" He trailed off, and I must have looked pretty pathetic, because he cleared his throat and said, "I reckon there'll be time for that tomorrow. Come on, let's get you to your quarters."

He escorted me through the barren halls, and I found myself grateful for his hand on my arm as we went—the shakiness and weak knees didn't subside once I got out of that room, unfortunately.

I was fortunate enough to have a room to myself. While the men's area was overcrowded, sometimes resulting in four people to a room, the women's section was comparatively sparse. The rooms were set up to accommodate two inmates apiece, but the women of Gotham, by and large, seemed to either be holding on to their sanity or losing their minds in quieter, less criminal ways than the men—there weren't even enough of us to fill all the available cells.

The orderly took me to mine and removed the cuffs in silence. I went shakily to my cot and sat on the edge, and the orderly, standing in the doorway, cleared his throat. "I'll… see if I can bring you up some supper."

I glanced up, having expected him to leave, already halfway to my own little world. "What? Oh… no, I'm not hungry. Thank you, though."

"You need to eat, Miss Quinzel," he said, a hint of warning in his tone. I glanced up, and it really didn't take much effort to make my eyes bright with tears—for some reason, they were on the verge anyway. He saw, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then muttered, "Oh, hell. Just this once, you understand? I don't need to get fired for letting you break routine."

I nodded quickly, reaching up to touch the skin just beneath my eyes, making sure it was still dry. The orderly nodded, and then stepped back and closed the door. I heard the sound of the heavy lock sliding into place, and then, finally, I was alone.

Slowly, I toed my shoes off and then pulled my legs up onto the thin mattress. I laid down facing the wall, closed my eyes, and for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to think about the night that had landed me in this hellhole in the first place.

* * *

_**Three Months Ago** _

It was obscenely hot for a May evening in Gotham, and as I pulled the black ski cap free of my hair, I reminded myself to ask Ivy again about the best ways to reduce the effects of global warming in an urban area. Not that my partner would give a damn; if I was going to terrorize the city council into saving the trees, I would be doing it alone.

I happened to be away from him that night, though not because I was pursuing my own interests—no, the goal that night was to perform a multi-zoned operation of the Joker's own design. He himself was just a few miles to the north, in Midtown, and still more men were Uptown, close to the borders of the city proper. The group up north would act first, blowing up a monorail station and drawing attention away from the city's center. Once the police were focused on the crime scene, I would move.

I was planted outside of a warehouse in the Meatpacking District, near the Admiral Docks. Not just any warehouse, though—no, as it so happened, this particular warehouse belonged to Sal Maroni. The Joker had intel that Maroni was using the place as a safe house for cash from a recent take. However, the object was _not_ , as Ace had first suggested, to take the money—a Maroni cash house was far from an easy target; external security was limited so as not to rouse suspicion, but inside, the place would be crawling with guys armed to the teeth and lacking a sense of humor. No, there wasn't much the Joker liked better than throwing his colleagues well off-balance, so our goal that night was simple— _warehouse go boom_.

So, we'd been sitting across the street from the mark for about thirty minutes, scoping it out, sitting against the tires on the side of the van opposite the warehouse, and waiting for the call. Not surprisingly, we'd started to get bored.

"Okay. I've got one."

Javier and I turned our heads attentively towards Kenny, a fairly new henchman, younger than he looked—a bit defensive, but one of the more normal guys we worked with overall. Another henchman, Toots, sat in the driver's seat of the van, sulking in silent protest of the fact that Javier and I had taken it upon ourselves to teach Kenny the finer points of Would You Rather.

Kenny, assured of our attention, proceeded. "Okay, so, would you rather… have to deal with a five hour nosebleed, or be locked in a room with Batman for one minute?"

I snorted, and Javier said, "I'm pretty sure that in a minute, Batman would give you plenty of _other_ injuries that would bleed for five hours."

"Oh, come on," I disagreed. "All you have to do is dodge him for sixty seconds."

"Harley, he's hard enough to hide from in the open air," Javier argued. "In a twelve-by-twelve room? I don't like your chances."

"Whoa, when did we specify the size of the room?"

Kenny, looking from me to Javier and back again, asked, "Is this… part of the game?"

"Yes," Javier and I said in unison, and Javier went on: "I imagine that if we're being locked in with the Batman, it's going to be your average police interrogation room—that is, not very big. Even the boss wasn't able to escape a beating in that scenario."

"Wait, what?" I demanded. "The Joker was in an interrogation room with Batman?"

"Yeah, during the whole Harvey Dent situation, before he went to the nuthouse for the first time."

"Why didn't I know about this?" I asked, frowning.

"I doubt the cops publicized it. They weren't working with him, remember?" Javier reminded me, cracking a sardonic grin. "Unless you heard it from the boss himself, I'm not surprised you didn't know, and he's not really one to sit around reminiscing about his jail time, so since you weren't there…"

"Damn," I said, making a mental note to ask J about it later.

"Um. Guys?" Kenny ventured softly, and we both glanced at him again.

"Nosebleed for five hours," Javier said.

I shook my head. "Uh- _uh_. Room with Batman for a minute."

"Well, of course _you're_ gonna say that," Kenny chuckled.

I paused and glanced sideways at him. "What do you mean by that?"

I felt Javier go still, doubtless refraining from moving until he understood the line of questioning. Kenny obviously picked up on the shift in mood, glancing rapidly from me to Javier and back again, and he stuttered an answer: "Just… I feel like he'd have trouble hittin' a girl, that's all."

I watched him contemplatively, and after a moment, I nodded, hearing Javier shift and relax as I said, "Well, if he does, that's his problem." Kenny all but wiped nervous sweat from his brow.

I didn't blame them their nerves. For a while, conscious of my relatively fragile status in their eyes, I'd openly called out anyone who even implied I wasn't up to the task—especially due to my gender. This habit of mine was pretty effective for three reasons. First, the Joker never intervened—my battles with the henchmen were mine alone. Second, they almost always ended in violence, and third, I'd been trained for six months by the Joker, meaning the threat of violence from me had grown considerable. They may have been stronger, but I was faster, and by this point, much sneakier.

However, as I'd stayed with the group for months on end, as henchmen had rotated endlessly and I'd stayed put, people seemed to get the message, and far fewer taunted me than used to. Kenny's statement—not even questioning me; just the truth—was far from over the line.

Staring at the rundown old building we were parked in front of, I said, "You know, he saved my life once."

"Who? Batman?" Javier demanded. "Why didn't I know about this?"

"Yeah, during the boss's first escape from Arkham. You know—he threw me off the roof." Kenny was gaping by then. "Batman had to choose between following _him_ and saving me, and—well, he chose me. Obviously."

Kenny, having quickly adjusted to the image of the Joker throwing someone off a roof, laughed: "I bet he wishes he hadn't now."

I frowned, wondering for a moment if that was true. The Batman had always been very careful with human life—with the exception of Harvey Dent, but the Joker seemed so adamantly convinced that that was somehow a frame job that I'd begun to believe him. It was hard to see him wishing death on me, despite the extra trouble my new role had caused him throughout the past few months. I wanted very much to pretend that I simply didn't care, that Batman was the enemy—worse, a considerable rival for the Joker's attentions (possibly even affections).

The truth, though, was that my feelings towards Batman were complicated. On the one hand, he _was_ the enemy, a brute totally lacking sophistication, seemingly believing that he could pound crime out of existence with his bare fists. On the other hand… well, he _had_ saved my life, which I supposed was worth taking into consideration. Additionally, as much as we all lived in fear of the Batman showing up while we were working one of these _errands,_ there was also next to no chance the Joker would end up dead at the end of one of his encounters with the Bat. With the police, on the other hand, there was always the possibility that some cop would finally decide that some limited jail time would be a small price to pay for permanently ridding Gotham of its biggest menace and just open fire. Although Batman was the biggest and most consistent threat to our operation, at least I didn't have to be afraid that he'd someday shoot J in the back.

I hoped.

Before I could mire myself too deeply in that train of thought, the cell phone in my pocket beeped. "Finally," I breathed, fishing it out. The text I'd just received just said " _Rube Goldberg_." I grinned and tucked the phone away again, standing. "It's time to go, boys."

The henchmen clambered to their feet, and I gestured at Javier. "Give me the stuff," I said, referring to the knapsack full of C4 I was supposed to slip in through one of the basement windows.

Javier, however, was not as gung-ho about the idea as I was. "I don't think you should do it."

I frowned, irked. "Oh, okay. Let me just call up the boss and tell him the plan's off because Javier got cold feet. What the hell?"

"Harley—finger off the trigger, okay?" he said irritably. "I didn't say I wanted to call off the job completely. I've just got a feeling."

"A feeling," I repeated, awaiting clarification. Javier got _feelings_ a lot—he was a superstitious sunovabitch—and most of the time, the Joker declined to indulge him by hearing him out. I, on the other hand, had a soft spot for him, and more often than not, I was willing to do things his way.

"Yeah," he said, a touch defensively, glancing over the roof of the van at the silent warehouse up the street. "It's been… really quiet. I think Kenny and I oughta do a casual walkby, make sure everything looks all right before you go in. Fair?"

I studied him for a minute, then shrugged. "Hey, fine with me. Hurry, though—and take your phone, call to tell me the coast is clear and I'll follow."

"Wait, what?" Toots spoke up from the driver's seat, sitting up from his slouch for the first time since he'd retreated there to sulk half an hour ago.

I shot him a glance. "What?"

"That's not the plan," he said, scratching at his neck nervously as he glanced down the road at the warehouse.

I shook my head dismissively. "It's recon, Toots. Don't be so prescriptive; he's just gonna go check things out then I'll follow right away."

Toots' scratching grew more intense. "Boss wouldn't like it," he all but whined.

"Yeah, well, right now, _I'm_ the boss, and I say it's okay," I said, exasperated—usually, the henchmen assisting me on jobs didn't raise any concerns, and the delays were starting to annoy me. "Javier, can you hurry up and check it out before Toots scrapes all the skin off his neck?"

"Will do, boss lady." Javier turned, grabbing Kenny by the shoulder. "C'mon, kid. Get your hood down; you don't have to worry about anyone in there IDing you and it just looks suspicious."

Kenny scrambled to obey, and the two of them set off towards the warehouse, crossing the street without looking both ways (and I almost called out to scold them before resigning myself to the fact that it wouldn't do any good). Toots sat back, giving up but still making little distressed noises in his throat. I ignored him, leaning my shoulder against the side of the van and watching as the others approached the warehouse. On cue, my phone rang.

"How's it look?" I asked by way of answer.

"Ghost town," Javier replied. "You sure there's people inside?"

"Hey, that's what he told me."

"Yeah, well, I'm not seein' anything by way of security. No cameras, no guards, nothin'." I watched as he and Kenny paused in front of the gate; Javier put a hand out to stop him and then slowly approached the fence.

"What?" I asked, craning my neck to try to see what he saw.

"There's something right inside the gate. Looks like… an old jacket or something."

I frowned, walking around to the back of the van to see clearer. "Javier. It's the city. There's trash every—"

"Shit," he hissed, and I saw him jump back.

" _What_?"

"Red light—" is all he managed to get out before the gate spat out a cloud of blinding fire and ear-shattering sound, consuming him and Kenny. A hundred and fifty yards away, a wave of heat smashed into me, making my complaints about the hot spring night earlier laughable, and asphalt and gravel shaken loose from the street peppered my face and body as my hearing cut out. Reflexively, I held up my hands, dropping my phone as I tried to protect myself from the shrapnel. As I hunched down, trying blindly to occupy as little space as possible, I remember thinking numbly _one-quarter kilo of C4 has a blast radius of one meter, I must be eighty meters away, that means if they used more than twenty kilos then I'm done for—_

And then, it stopped. A few little stones spattered against my shielding arms, and then my hearing slowly swam back to me, announcing itself by the shrill whine in my ears. Slowly, I lowered my arms from my head and tried to stand. It was asking too much from my shock-weakened knees, and instead of moving upright, I found myself suddenly sprawled on the ground behind the van.

I was still facing the warehouse. The front of it was ravaged by the explosion, on fire, and smoke billowed up thickly from the bomb site, obscuring my view of anything detailed.

Even though I saw no bodies or blood and my mind was sluggish with fear, I knew. Javier was dead, and if he hadn't insisted on checking things out beforehand, it would have been me.

* * *

I dragged myself, gasping, out of the memory, back to the cold reality of the asylum. I wasn't surprised to find my face wet, and as I struggled to breathe, more tears slipped from my eyes to join the others.

I didn't want to think about this anymore. I knew, though, that unless I did something to prevent it, I would go on reliving that memory against my will.

Not all of the cells were padded. Those were reserved for patients with a history of self-harm or psychotic breaks that might lead them to hurt themselves unintentionally. I, however, was neither prone to psychosis nor self-injury—usually—so I had a regular old hard-walled cell.

I turned my face to the wall to which my cot was bolted. Without a second thought, I reeled back and bashed my forehead against it as hard as I could.

Stars exploded in front of my eyes, lighting up the darkness of my room for a split second. It'd been a while since I'd seen those stars; I remembered what they meant. Gratefully, I fell backwards against the pillow as dizziness seized me, knowing that the vertigo would shortly yield to oblivion.

The stars disappeared, and I was smiling in exhausted relief when the blackness seized me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… does Harley's annoyance with the field of psychology sound familiar? To be fair, she's not parroting anything—what she said was very much her own heartfelt opinion, but it's definitely not one she would have reached had she not been living in open exposure to the Joker and all his… everything. Has a bit of a decaying effect on one's sense of social obligation, I imagine (also one's concern for one's physical wellbeing, apparently). Although to be fair, when faced with Wilson the way he's been of late, we might all start delivering anti-social tirades.
> 
> Oh, and it didn't start out this way, but I'd be lying if I didn't say eventually the unnamed orderly in this chapter (and a few more along the line) started looking and sounding a hell of a lot like Barney from the Hannibal series. I've plucked elements from those books like a big ol' hack from the beginning; Polite Orderly might as well join the list.
> 
> Er… and I'm sorry about Javier, truly. I loved him, but you know, when your boss is an asshole, things tend to go south unexpectedly. So there's part one of the two-part tale of how Harley ended up as an inmate in the asylum where she used to work. Part two—the longer, more complicated part—is coming soon. Thanks to everyone who gave comments or kudos; I appreciate the support!


	4. it’s not enough to stay here

_Half life wastes before it goes_  
_It’s funny how your bee sting touch never leaves me whole_  
_It’s not enough to stay here almost trying_  
_You keep your last laugh, watch this dying_

**-Sneaker Pimps, _Half Life ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-OLgSKf4Sug))  
_**

I didn't get up the next morning until the 7:00 wake-up call—that is, the morning guard coming on shift, standing at the end of the hallway, and bellowing that it was time to get up, go, get our asses out of bed, inspections in five.

My head throbbed, the pain originating from an extremely tender spot just above my right brow, and for a second, I lay in bed with my eyes closed, letting the familiar sensation tug a lazy daydream from me: _I'm not here at all, I'm back at the hideout, waking up the morning after a fight, and he's forgotten about it in the night, is lying right next to me, all I have to do is turn over and reach for him…_

But of course he wasn't, and I couldn't. My eyelids flickered open slowly, and I sat up on my bunk, slipping my feet into the laceless shoes that came standard with the shitty rough asylum uniforms. I eyeballed the dull orange of the jumpsuit shirt before sighing and pulling it on over the holey wifebeater I slept in, mumbling, "Fucking hacks, everyone knows the human eye gets bored without a variety of color, all this orange and white is gonna just drive us all _crazier_ , unbe _lievable_ …"

Once I'd wrestled my shirt on, I faced the fact that I'd gotten up on the wrong (albeit _only_ ) side of the bed this morning, and I might as well resign myself to it. As I bent down and touched my toes, limbering up after, by the feel of it, sleeping in the same position all night, I gave myself permission to be grouchy—just as long as it didn't result in me getting hit with the anti-psychotics. I couldn't afford that.

Still, it was tempting to see if Zsaz would trade me for a shiv, then wait until Doctor Wilson showed his face in the communal area and then stab him in his fucking throat. After all, his little trick last night had prompted the reliving of the memory that had resulted in me bashing my head against the wall in the first place, and now, a good few hours away from the shivering mess I'd been last night, I was no longer sad and scared—just pissed off.

 _Stay away from the anti-psychotics,_ I reasoned with myself as the doors swung open for inspection.

After inspection came medicine time. They were currently giving me lithium to regulate a potential bipolar disorder, fluoxetine to even out my mood and take the edge off of my "obsessive" behavior, and ziprasidone to keep me from getting depressed and to keep the violent outbursts to a minimum. In addition to the fact that I wasn't fucking crazy, I also wasn't a fan of the lack of focus, the nausea, and the restlessness that came along with this particular drug cocktail.

Fortunately, unlike everyone but Crane, I'd worked at Arkham before, knew all of the tricks. I'd sucked it up for the first couple of weeks, taking the medicine and patiently submitting to their full-mouth searches. Once they slacked off, just checking on and beneath my tongue, I'd started shifting the pills, pouching them tightly beside my gums and out of sight. After the mouth check, I'd just wait for a minute alone and crush the pills on the ground under my shoe, smearing the dust away into nothing. It had been months and no one had caught me at it.

The morning passed quickly, with a breakfast of greasy eggs and hard bread that I didn't touch. After breakfast came a brief communal hour with my fellow female inmates, all of whom were more drugged up than I was, which just killed their conversational skills. That was fine with me; I sat by the barred window and looked out at the gray city.

Art therapy came next, and although I found it the most useless out of _all_ my useless sessions, it was also my favorite. Dr. Mori, who ran the sessions, had a bachelor's degree in art to go along with her doctorate in psychology and counseling, and she was supremely laid-back, seeing progress in every brush stroke. That morning, she kept shooting me worried looks, and I was baffled until I remembered the tender spot on my forehead. Mirrors (or even mirrored surfaces) were in short supply in Arkham, but I was willing to guess there was a nice blue bruise already growing there. Hopefully it wasn't too bad; foreheads didn't bruise as badly as most other places.

She kept up with the worried glances, but she didn't come to interrogate me about the mark. I was actually starting to relax and forget how badly the morning started until I glanced down at the pad I'd been painting absently. Red and black criss-crossed the white page, and although they weren't in a particularly discernible shape, I pulled back immediately with a muttered profanity. I trashed the page, still under Dr. Mori's worried eyes, and headed to lunch freshly annoyed.

Because it had been about a month since my last real outburst, I was allowed to go to the communal lunch room shared by the male and female inmates who had been behaving themselves—under very careful guard, of course, and only for about a half-hour a day, but it was a form of reward for good behavior (the theory also being that socialization, even socialization with fellow crazies, was good for the inmates). As usual, I wasn't too thrilled at the idea of mingling, but it turned out they didn't take too kindly to requests for private in-cell meals, so into the common room I went.

I got in line, arms crossed under my chest, shoulders slightly hunched, making no eye contact—sending every signal that meant _don't look at me, don't talk to me, I'm not here_ that I could think of. Predictably, that's when Crane decided to step in line behind me.

His condescending drawl, right above my shoulder, announced his presence. " _You're_ looking a little tense this morning. Med shortage?"

I kept my eyes straight ahead, focused on the kitchen, but I did tilt my head a little bit as I muttered, "Oh, well, excuse the fuck outta me for being cranky. That couldn't have _anything_ to do with my being locked in a prison with idiots in charge."

I could hear the smirk in his voice as he asked, "Art therapy not going well?"

Any other day, I'd have cracked a smirk in response, played along, complained sarcastically about Dr. Mori's oppressive standards, but the events of the night before were still a little too close for comfort, and I wasn't up for any sort of playfulness. I heaved a tired sigh. "Look, Jonathan," I said as we reached the end of the line and I took up my plastic tray, "I like you, but today I'm just not in a very sociable mood. Do me a favor and hold off till next time?"

Lunch today was more of the same hard bread, a pocket of mashed potatoes, and a Salisbury steak that looked more like rubber and was drenched in dubious brown sauce. This was the fourth day running we hadn't had any fruit or vegetables that weren't pure starch. Pam would _die_ cooped up in here.

Crane gathered his tray and was right at my shoulder as I spotted an unoccupied table that looked ideal for my planned brooding session. "Aw, I'm sorry to hear that. It wouldn't have anything to do with that bruise coming along on your forehead, would it?"

I stopped short and shot a vicious look at him. Naturally, he ignored the warning, pausing mid-step as well, one corner of his mouth quirking up as he looked me in the eyes and said, "What, missing your lover's fists so much that you have to inflict your own—"

I didn't even let him get the sentence out. I reeled back with my tray and cracked him across the face. Granted, the trays were made of light plastic, nothing damaging in themselves, but they _were_ blunt objects, and although shitty food and limited exercise meant I was weaker now than I was coming into the Asylum, I still put plenty of heft into it—enough, at least, to knock his glasses flying. He stumbled back, and I jabbed the edge of the tray hard into his diaphragm, hearing the air rush out of him with a satisfying _oomf_ sound. I jerked back to hit him again, and then they were onto me.

First impulse was to fight for all I was worth, spitting curses (and actual spit) the whole way, but even as I tensed up in preparation, common sense reared up, and I went limp, letting them pull me back without resisting. Hitting a fellow inmate was one thing—we were all supposedly crazy and violent; the occasional spat was to be expected. Hitting doctors or orderlies, though, was a one-way ticket to a thorazine injection, and even though I'd already lost my temper, I still had no desire to be taken out for the rest of the day.

My hunch proved correct. Although they pulled me immediately out of the room (my last sight was of a food-covered Crane wheezily bending over to find his glasses, which I found immensely satisfying), they didn't inject me with anything, just took me straight to my cell and left me there.

And then went on leaving me there. Normally, a violent act like mine would be immediately followed by a disciplinary meeting with the next available therapist so I could discuss what had happened and I why I felt compelled to act out in such an unhealthy manner, but this time, an hour trickled away like nothing, with no sign of anyone coming to get me, either for a session or to resume the morning routine.

I paced my cell, wondering for a little while if Crane had been seriously hurt. I dismissed the thought promptly—the trays were _plastic_ , after all, no sharp edges, and I hadn't even broken his glasses. Still, I couldn't help but feel a little ache of worry. He _was_ my only friend in the place, after all (and I had no doubt that he would continue to be, even after the unfortunate incident—he was as bored here as I was, couldn't afford to sever ties over one little scuffle).

My stomach nagged at me, reminding me that I had eaten neither breakfast nor lunch. Of course, I hadn't been _planning_ to eat my lunch, but my hunger gave me something to focus on other than my worry—and other than the conclusion of the memory I'd partially relived last night.

Eventually, the door opened. At those point, I'd settled down on the bed and was staring at the wall, trying to think about nothing whatsoever with moderate success, and so I stood up immediately, relieved that _something_ , at least, was happening.

It was the orderly whose name I was studiously not-learning. He peered down his nose at me and said, "That wasn't a very nice thing you did to Crane, Dr. Quinzel."

I shrugged, most of my rancor having drained away by now. I was still cranky, though, and so I couldn't help saying, a little mutinously, "Neither was what he said to me, but watch him get out clean while I have to deal with discipline."

"Well, Dr. Crane didn't get violent with you."

"Yeah, not _inside_ the asylum," I snorted. "Get him out of here, give him a couple of days to manufacture some of his nightmare gas, then tell me he's the patron saint of chivalry."

I got the faintest of smiles, then he stepped aside. "Come on, now."

"Where are going?" I asked, going along gamely enough—at least I was getting to leave my cell.

"Now, Dr. Quinzel, you know they don't tell me anything."

I snorted. "Fair enough." After another few strides, I stopped dead. "I don't have to meet with Wilson again, do I?"

He paused beside me. "I can't be positive, but I'm pretty sure he's dealing with a different fight all the way across the asylum. You got lucky today; you didn't draw blood, so your fight got upstaged."

I grinned a little, relieved at the thought that I wouldn't be subject to whatever Wilson was up to again so soon afterwards, and kept going. We got to the examination room, he cuffed me as usual, and I went in and sat down.

I'd only been waiting for a minute or two when the door opened and someone came in. I looked up, fully expecting to see any one of the battery of doctors who had been guiding me through therapy since my incarceration, and so I was mildly surprised to find a complete stranger, a black woman of about forty whose black hair fell in a cloud of curls around her face. No glasses, no lab coat, though she held the usual clipboard loaded down with information about me.

She began talking the moment she'd closed the door. "Good afternoon, Dr. Quinzel, I'm Dr. Joan Leland. You'll have to forgive me, I'm technically not supposed to be meeting with you until tomorrow, but the incident with Dr. Crane earlier in the common room combined with half the usual doctors being out sick today pushed the schedule up a bit. Lucky us, huh?"

I remained quiet, arms folded, watching her. I had no idea what sort of person she was, and until I knew which approach she planned on taking, I couldn't exactly plan out my own reaction.

"All… right," she murmured as she sat down and flipped through the clipboard. I recognized the motions something I used to do myself—pretending to be busy during the very first meeting with a patient, heighten your respectability while also buying yourself time to gauge the feel of the room and get comfortable on your own. I had no doubt that she knew my file all the way through.

"All right," she repeated again after another moment, looking up at me with a brief smile. "The first thing I'm tasked with is talking to you about the incident this afternoon in the lunch room—which, believe me, I know isn't ideal, given that you don't know me at all. Still, given that it's my first week and it'd keep Wilson off my back… take a little pity on me, will you?"

Maybe some other day, I'd have been untouched, but after last night, I wasn't willing to give Dr. Wilson the opportunity to play King of the Castle any more than he was already able. I cleared my throat quietly and acquiesced: "Jonathan and I are friends, believe it or not. He just said something… very rude about the bruise on my head, and I lost my temper."

"Mm…hmm," she hummed, jotting down a note on the clipboard. "Any chance you're willing to tell me what he said?"

I remained quiet. She only let the silence linger for a second before saying, "Okay. And the bruise itself? Want to tell me how you got that?"

I sighed, then told her, "I hit it on the wall last night. I was having a bad dream."

"Okay," she said, almost to herself, jotting that down as well. She glanced over the notes she had just taken, and then set the clipboard neatly down, laced her hands together, and met my eyes. "I understand meeting with a therapist you've never met before doesn't exactly inspire one to become a fount of information, so let me first assure you that I don't expect that, and secondly, let me give you a bit of information about me and about how this session came about so that we're on the same page. Sound good to you?"

Still favoring the silent approach, I nodded once. So far, my opinion of her was fairly neutral, though her understanding that she shouldn't push on the first session and the fact that she hadn't even mentioned the Joker so far made me inclined to think a little better of her than was usual for new doctors. I was interested in seeing if this impression tanked with whatever she was about to say.

She nodded back, then started: "As I said, I'm Joan Leland and I got my doctorate in psychology at Stanford University in 1995—and I'd appreciate if you wouldn't do the math on that. I initially worked in care facilities for people who were self-committed, and after about five years of that, I moved to an institution that looked after people who had been committed by their families or by a court order. After another five years, I made the switch to institutions for the criminally insane, and I've been working in that field ever since.

"I came to Arkham a week ago, after Doctor Wilson noticed that I'd expressed interest in working here. The _reason_ I expressed interest is that Gotham City seems to have a peculiarly high number of patients for the type of institution it is, in addition to a higher re-committal rate than I've ever seen. I'm interested in observing why, in addition, of course, to helping wherever I can. This indirectly relates to you."

She paused, making sure I hadn't zoned out, and I nodded at her, letting her know I was still with her. "I'm going to be completely honest with you, Harley—I don't think you're legally insane." She paused for a reaction, and when I didn't give her one, plunged right back in: "And I don't want you to see that as some form of threat, because the courts have ruled what they've ruled, and I'm not going to argue with them. However, the fact remains that insanity is a _legal_ state, meaning that at the time you committed the crime or crimes of which you were accused, you were mentally _incapable_ of telling right from wrong. One can have any number of mental disturbances, up to and including severe personality disorders and chemical imbalances, without being _insane_."

"I know," I said, the slightest of edges to my voice.

She took the interjection in perfect stride. "Yes, Doctor—I'm recapping to keep my own thoughts organized, not because I suspect you've forgotten. The point is merely that in your case, and many, many other cases of inmates exhibiting antisocial or disturbed behavior that I've observed in my year or so of studying this asylum in my spare time, I've noted that the courts seem to prefer shutting you away in Arkham rather than sending you to a proper prison."

"You noticed that, too, huh?" I asked, giving her the very smallest of wry smiles.

"Naturally, you'd be aware of it. You _did_ work here, after all, and you currently reside among the inmates in question. It's simply a point of interest that brought me here to observe what, exactly, about the inmates of Arkham Asylum resulted in their being confined _here_ rather than in Blackgate Prison, where they'd likely be if they'd committed their crimes in any other city in the nation."

"It's an interesting phenomenon," I allowed, "and good luck studying it. I'm pretty sure you won't lack for data."

"That's my hope, Doctor Quinzel. However, just because I don't believe the majority of the inmates here are _insane_ doesn't mean I think they're all healthy, well-adjusted people, which is why I'm _working_ here rather than visiting for research purposes on weekends. I _do_ think that most of the souls in here would benefit from having someone to offer a sympathetic ear and educated guidance. For whatever reason, Doctor Wilson believes that I might be of some help to _you_ in particular, hence this session. So, now that you're up to speed, I'm going to save us both from potentially wasted time and ask you directly—do you think you'd be interested in continuing to meet with me?"

* * *

I told her yes.

I'm not exactly sure _why_ I told her yes. Maybe it was because I was pleased that she was taking a respectful approach and addressing me almost as an equal rather than an unruly child. Maybe it was because the project she described sounded particularly interesting to me, that I thought I had a chance at getting her to share her research as she acquired it.

At any rate, I said yes, and she gave me one brief smile that completely obscured any triumph or doubt she might have been feeling at my agreement before announcing that since we weren't actually intended to meet tomorrow and since we had already discussed the incident with Crane, then we'd adjourn until our originally scheduled meeting time. That was fine by me. I needed some time to review my defenses and mental walls before I started "work" with a new shrink.

After the same orderly returned me to my cell, I proceeded to do just that, sitting quietly on my bunk and concentrating, going through all the techniques _I_ would have used if I had me as a patient. For each idea, I came up with a defense, but the first and most important rule remained static— _never, ever speak the truth about the Joker._

My stunt with Crane had ensured that I would be without social privileges for at least a week, which I wasn't particularly torn up about, so instead of being escorted to the cafeteria with the rest of the women in the wing, dinner was brought to me instead. A nurse dropped off a thick Styrofoam tray (apparently, I'd lost my hard plastic privileges) that boasted a stale sandwich with one bare scrap of bologna on it, a giant pocket of beans, and a tiny carton of milk. If I hadn't been here and suffered through the meals for months already, I'd have thought I was being punished for the day's altercation. As it was, I knew it was standard fare.

I didn't realize I'd been waiting for something until the nurse who'd brought my tray left the room and the door locked securely behind her. Then, feeling a sudden rush of relief, I realized that I'd been patiently keeping myself occupied until I was left alone for the night. My mind jumped to the exact point where I'd left off during last night's trip down Memory Lane, and, with a day to subconsciously recover and prepare myself, I was ready to face it. I'd been avoiding the memory since my committal, violently jerking my mind away from the flashes I'd get here or there, trying to avoid pain. Now, though, I sensed that it was time.

I left the tray on the floor, the food untouched—my stomach was completely empty, but I had no appetite regardless, especially not for the tasteless mush on that tray. It wouldn't be the first time since my incarceration I'd gone a day without eating; I'd be fine. Instead, I moved to the bunk, very carefully thinking of nothing until I'd climbed up and laid down, pulling my feet up and turning on my side to face the wall.

Then, I closed my eyes and remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually TERRIBLY sorry to leave you guys there, but the next section got SO long that it really needed its own chapter. I'll try to make up for it, give you the next chapter by the weekend instead of in a whole week.
> 
> Threw in another Bronson reference, because why not? Also: Joan Leland! I am all about those cool lady doctors, and also could not resist the opportunity to lampshade Arkham's frankly ridiculous habit of muddying the lines between insane and mentally ill, and there needs to be at least ONE competent doctor who isn't dealing with conflicts of interest on staff, so Joan it is. Props to going_going_gone for calling it. :)


	5. i'd sell your heart to the junkman

_I'd sell your heart to the junkman, baby_  
_For a buck, for a buck_  
_If you're looking for someone to pull you out of that ditch_  
_You're out of luck, you're out of luck!_

 **-Tom Waits,** _**God's Away On Business ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W9mhsW5aWJM))** _

_**Three Months Ago, Cont.** _

One doesn't witness an explosion from a mere eighty meters and immediately recover. After my hearing more or less returned to me, after I came to the realization that the warehouse had blown up with Javier and Kenny in such close proximity that I'd be surprised if there was more left of them than a fingernail, I stood on the street for about ten seconds, completely still aside from my trembling.

The first thing to cut through the haze of shock was the sound of an engine trying desperately to turn over. I realized that I needed to get out, get away from the scene of the crime. I turned to the van, and my brain started moving again, catching up to me.

I remembered Toots, realized that he was the one trying so hard to start the van, and I understood. Cold iron filled my veins, I felt my strength renewed, and I started towards the driver's side, drawing the revolver I kept holstered at my side during missions as I went.

Toots was twisting the key hard enough to almost snap it in the ignition, panting heavily and letting loose a whimper here and there. I didn't waste time watching him—the only reason the van wasn't starting was because he was panicking too much to be patient with it, to give it a few more seconds to try to rouse itself. I didn't want to give him the chance.

I stepped around, in view of the open driver side window but at a wise distance from it, and brought my revolver up, pulling back the hammer to get his attention. "Show me your hands, Toots."

He froze, then his eyes flitted up to me and a little whine escaped from the corner of his mouth. I jabbed my revolver towards him. " _Now,_ or I'll shoot you."

He hesitated. I twitched the gun a little to my left and fired.

He shrieked, grasping the shoulder that now bore a shiny new bullet wound, and before he could recover, I was ripping the door open, balling my fist in his sweatshirt and pulling hard. He was too focused on the fresh pain in his shoulder to stiffen up or resist, and so I didn't have trouble slinging him from the seat onto the pavement like so much dead weight.

 _Fast, fast, fast,_ I thought in an endless stream to myself, aware that he could recover at any second and start fighting back, that the police were on their way. Still feeling that metallic chill running up my spine, giving me strength, I ripped Toots' Sig Sauer out of his holster and tossed it clear, up onto the driver's seat. Then, I bent down and grabbed the collar of his sweatshirt, reorienting the barrel of my revolver so that it pointed directly at the bridge of his nose. He went cross-eyed trying to keep it in his sights.

"Toots," I said, keeping my voice level, even a little sweet. "Did the boss tell you to make sure _I_ was the one who approached the warehouse when he said go?"

His eyes skittered off to the left, a strangled moan emerging from his throat. I gave him a second, and when his jaw tightened, signifying his (stupid) decision to stay loyal to the Bigger Boss, I indulged in a split second's eyeroll. Then, sharply, half-barking, I said, "Toots!"

My tone drew his reluctant gaze back to my face. Fighting past teeth that wanted to clench in anger, fighting the fear that was starting to crawl up in my throat, I said, "I know you're scared of telling his secrets. He's a scary person. Unpredictable, too. You never know if he's going to reward disloyalty with a pat on the back or a bullet in the brains. The thing is, though—he's not _here_ right now, and I am, and I'm _promising_ you—" Here, I pulled back the hammer for the second time to underscore my point—"That if you don't answer my questions, I _will_ kill you. That's certain death right now versus potential death later—and that's only a possibility _if_ you don't choose to just get the hell out of town as soon as I let you go. So let me ask you again: _did._ The Boss. Tell _you._ To make sure _I_ was on the receiving end of that bomb?"

He was breathing heavily through his nostrils. He looked about five seconds away from cracking, but I wasn't getting any younger. I made sure my finger was clear of the trigger guard—didn't want any accidents—and, to help him reach his decision, jammed the barrel of the gun hard into the center of the bloodstain blooming on his shoulder.

He yelped in pain, and as soon as his mouth was open, the answer came pouring out: "Yes! Yes, he told me _you_ had to be the one to go!"

Without my permission, my eyes drifted shut. _I knew it._ A split second later, they snapped open again and I withdrew the barrel of my gun from Toots' fresh bullet wound, training it again on his face. "Is he still going through with his part of the plan?"

A bit of drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he clenched his teeth against the pain, and when his eyes refocused on me, he looked confused. "Wh—what do you?"

"Is he still in _Cathedral Square_ , Toots?" I demanded.

"Y—I mean, as far as I know, yes," he stammered.

That was all I needed. I didn't waste another word on him, standing up and stepping over him to climb into the van, pausing only to move his Sig to the passenger seat. I slammed the door behind me, then reached for the key in the ignition and twisted it, holding it in place as the engine sputtered, struggled, and finally, after about five seconds, turned over and roared with vitality. If I'd had an extra second, I might have tossed a smug look out the window at Toots, but I'd loitered for a full minute at least getting information out of him, and I needed to get away from the burning warehouse as soon as humanly possible. I took off from the curb, heading northeast.

I was lucky. I didn't start seeing the flashing lights of police cruisers until I was already on the bridge exiting the island, and they were heading in the opposite direction. I told myself I probably shouldn't stick with the van for much longer, just in case some nosy witness had taken down the license plate, but figured I'd be all right for a little while. I didn't need long; Cathedral Square was only five or ten minutes away even _in_ city traffic.

As I drove, I felt the steel in my veins start to heat up. With Toots, I'd been focused on getting my answers and getting the hell out of Dodge, but now, I was alone and presumably safe for a little while. I had time to think about what I'd discovered, and I was starting to put it all together. Unsurprisingly, it pissed me off.

We'd been getting along fine, no real fights for several weeks—which should have been an indicator of the fact that he was up to something, but idiot that I was, I'd taken it to mean that he'd forgotten the little incident in February, three months back. He'd been deathly ill. I'd drugged him and handcuffed him to a bed so he would actually have a shot at recovering. He'd been extremely pissed off at me the whole time, so after releasing him, I skipped out to stay with Pam for a week, to let him cool off so he could see that I'd actually been _helping_ him.

When I got back, he seemed to have forgotten the whole thing. This wasn't unusual—six months of living with the man had taught me that for all of his genius strategizing, he was scatterbrained as hell when it came to the littler things. Still, I wasn't willing to trust that he wasn't lulling me into a false sense of security before retaliating, so I'd stayed wary for a few weeks. When a major fight came and went without any uncalled-for levels of violence, without any mention of his captivity, I slowly began to think that he actually had forgotten.

That was about two months before the warehouse explosion, and as I drove towards Cathedral Square, I was forced to admit that the bomb _must_ have been his retaliation.

I became aware that a tear had slipped from my left eye, and from the feel of it, was soon to be followed by others. Angrily, I bunched my sleeve up around the heel of my hand and dashed at my lower lids, sweeping the moisture away. Okay, it hurt. It hurt a _lot_ , the idea that the Joker valued his independence so much and me so little that he was willing to risk my life like that—and I didn't necessarily believe that his intent was, without a doubt, to _kill_ me. He was a man of unbelievable foresight and would have suspected Javier's superstition, Toots' inability to put his foot down, Kenny's inexperience, and my own tendency towards improvisation—he would have known that there was a good chance I wouldn't be the one to go near that bomb.

But there was also a good chance that I _would._ And the understanding that he apparently didn't give a damn which way it played out felt like a knife slowly twisting in my belly. I was hurt.

And _pissed._

I fought the urge to drive swiftly and recklessly, knowing that the last thing I needed tonight was to be chased down by the police. Still, despite my tame speed, I reached Cathedral Square in what felt like moments.

I recognized a familiar van parked on the street across from St. Peter's, the church for which the square was named, despite the fact that there was no motion immediately visible through the window. The knowledge that he was, in fact, inside the church, as planned, made me want to leap out of the vehicle and blitz recklessly inside, but once again, I restrained myself.

_Just one second. Just one more second, and then you can have at him._

I hadn't been wearing my makeup for a simple warehouse job with no public exposure. There were going to be people in that church, and, as furious as I was, I wasn't willing to rush in barefaced. Aside from the fact that he'd have my head if I did, I rather enjoyed the anonymity that a colored wig or a pair of glasses lent me when I _wasn't_ playing Harley Quinn. Give these churchgoers a clear look at my face, and my advantage shrank.

I'd taken to keeping makeup in the center console of most of our vehicles, and the van was no exception. I dug out the black and white greasepaints and my dried-blood-red lipstick and went to work, painting on a haphazard facsimile of my usual "showtime" makeup. A quick glance in the mirror when I was done revealed that the job was crude, but certainly passable—no one could mistake it for anything but my signature.

The ski cap had been left behind in Admiral Docks where I'd discarded it at the beginning of the night, and using the hair ties I kept around my wrists in case of situations just like this one, I divided my hair into messy pigtails. I was in jeans and a tank instead of the usual getup, but they were black and red, respectively, and the combat boots and the shining pink diamond scars on my bared arms combined with my makeup and my mere presence ensured that there could be no mistake as to my identity. Window dressing, to be sure, but showmanship was important to our little outfit, and I wasn't going to drop the ball just because I was about to have a very public fight with my shitty, murderous, _lying,_ _ **no-good**_ boyfriend. On the contrary—the war paint felt appropriate.

I abandoned the van beside a fire hydrant, since it wasn't as if we could keep it for much longer anyway, and stalked across the street. This area of town, perhaps because it was favored by the faithful, was often a target of jeering vandalism—a fact that benefited me at the moment, since the streetlamps were destroyed and there weren't any casual pedestrians to jam up my plan. I was sure that the Joker had taken this into account when he'd planned this little outing, as recognizable as his face was. Too bad I was planning to throw a wrench into his night, but I figured that the least I could do was pay him back for the experience I'd just had.

I threw open the doors and strode into the foyer. Two clowns were standing guard, holding AK-47s that they leveled at me the second I entered, but I didn't even check my stride, and they lifted the guns again immediately, recognizing the paint, the pigtails. I blew right through the foyer, pushed into the sanctuary, and bellowed:

" _ **JOKER!**_ "

The heavy doors fell closed behind me with a heavy thud that echoed through the quiet sanctuary. The figure at the very end of the room, standing at the pulpit with his arms outstretched and his back to me, slowly lowered his arms and turned around.

Ladies and gentlemen, the aforementioned shitty, murderous, lying, no-good boyfriend.

He hadn't filled me in on the details of what _he_ would be doing that evening, but apparently, it involved dressing in complete priest vestments to go with his painted face, up to and including a clerical collar. In other circumstances, I might have been thrilled to see the getup, but as it was, I was far too enraged and wounded to think anything but: _that_ _ **lying**_ _son of a bitch._

I started down the aisle, gathering information with several brief glances as I went. Clowns lining the sanctuary, stationed beside towering stained glass windows that might prove a weak point if they were interrupted by law enforcement. People huddled in the pews—about twenty of them altogether, all in the center as if they'd been herded out of their usual places, Midnight Mass-goers who had chosen this unfortunate night to attend. I could only imagine what they were thinking at my interruption. There was a pile of cell phones in front of the pulpit platform, smashed to bits, ensuring that none of the Joker's toys ended the game early.

I stomped past these and mounted the steps to the platform, and as I headed up to face him, he finally spoke up, blinking at me with an expression of owlish curiosity: "Um, can I _help_ you?" He sounded completely guileless, as if he really had no clue why I was interrupting him. Innocent.

_Innocent, my ass._

I stalked right up to him, coming to a stop a mere foot away. The Joker was a full eight inches taller than my not- _that_ -short 5'5", but we got into spats so often and I was so mad that I didn't even stop to consider that the top of my head didn't even reach his shoulder before confronting him. "Yeah, you can help me," I spat, and jabbed him directly in the chest with my index finger. "You can tell me what the _hell_ is wrong with you!"

"What, _today_?" he quipped instantly. He never could resist a smarmy comeback, but as I met his eyes, I didn't see levity there. I saw the light that only came out before someone was about to get hurt, the vicious little pinprick of white in the center of the pupils and irises that looked pitch black in the dim light.

I might have faltered then, but one of the clowns chose that moment to speak up, distracting us momentarily from each other: "What's wrong, Harley?"

We turned our heads in unison to look at him, and after a moment, I glanced back to see the Joker narrowing his eyes almost infinitesimally at me—possibly warning me to sit down and shut up. I disregarded that warning, turning to face the clown, who was guarding the window closest to us. I recognized his voice: he was a fairly new recruit, but one that I got along with well enough.

"You know, Westy, I'm glad you asked!" I said, pitching my voice to carry. "I assume you and the rest of the fellas know that the boss here sent us on a little _mission_ tonight?" I half-turned again, figuring that the Joker had been out of my line of sight for long enough but making it clear through body language that I was still addressing the henchmen and the crowd of hostages in the pews, sharing with them. "Yeah, we were supposed to plant a bomb in a warehouse, drive safely away, and detonate it. Only there was a bomb already there, wasn't there, J?" I asked, my voice getting increasingly sarcastically saccharine. "And it was set to go off, oh, right about the time we were supposed to be planting _our_ explosives. Wonder how _that_ happened?"

The Joker, tired of my recital, flung a gloved hand out and gripped my elbow with bony fingers, drawing me off-balance almost into his chest. " _Harley,_ " he growled, in a tone that—I couldn't quite believe it—sounded genuinely playful, "this sounds like, uhhh—a _private_ issue, huh? Lucky for you…" and here, he reached up pointedly with his other hand, tapping at the collar around his throat—"There's, ahh, a _confessional_ right over there, and _I'm_ game to listen to a few… _sins_. Wanna step _into_ it for a few minutes?"

I caught myself gaping at him. _He_ certainly was in a mood—I expected annoyance, some violent response to my interruption of his scheme, but definitely not _flirtation._ Sure, he'd been known to tease and show affection on jobs, especially when there were witnesses to freak out and disturb… and come to think of it, inviting me to defile a confessional in front of apparently devout churchgoers definitely fit under the category of "freak out and disturb," but I wasn't buying it. The Joker didn't like when I threw his plans off-balance, and I was being particularly unruly tonight, challenging him in front of the _hostages._

Plus, he still had that look in his eye. The look that said _I'm about to draw blood_. So I smiled as disarmingly as possible, yanked my elbow out of his hand, and trotted a couple of steps backwards. "No, thanks!" I chirped. "Because, honestly, with the night I've had—" And here I gave a brief, _oh-isn't-it-just-the-funniest-thing_ chuckle—"I really have no guarantee that I'll come out of there alive, do I?"

I met his eyes again, and as he stared thoughtfully and I stared back, I let the fake smile drop in favor of the expression I really wanted to wear—eyes narrowed, lips turned down, forehead furrowed in anger. I was pissed off, and at this point, I wanted everyone to know.

It was working, at any rate. Westy coughed awkwardly from the window a few feet behind me, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see the huddle of hostages shifting uneasily, tasting the tense atmosphere in the sanctuary and clearly wondering if my interruption would play out better for them or worse in the long run.

 _Hostages, that reminds me_ —but before I could ask irritably what he was even _doing_ here tonight, anyway, he gave a little head-shake, like a kid trying to throw off his drowsiness. All of a sudden, his face changed—he blinked several times, eyebrows knitting to crease the painted skin between them, and his lips puckered slightly as he took a step towards me. "Oh, but _Harley_ ," he crooned, and underneath the layer of mocking that always accompanied his words, I thought I could distinguish just a touch of concern. I stayed put, keeping a close eye on him as he reached out for my hands. " _Har_ ley, you're _bleeding_."

The blast had been far enough away that I hadn't been hit with any serious shrapnel, but I'd still gotten hit with some sharp gravel that cut into my bare arms, a couple of pieces finding their way to my forehead and hairline. I'd noticed drops of blood gathering on the latter cuts as I was putting on my makeup, but at the time, I was too pissed off and too ready to rush inside to do anything about them. I'd forgotten again until just then.

The Joker's hands closed around mine, the long fingers strong and firm beneath his rubbery gloves. "Yeah," I said, still jabbing at him, still looking for the snapping, vicious reaction I expected, "that's what happens when you get _blasted with shrapnel_."

"Oh, you're tellin' _me,_ " he said, drawing me backwards towards the spotlight that was focused on the podium. I followed, starting to feel confused. It wasn't like him to refrain from expressing his displeasure with me, even— _especially_ —in public. I'd violated Rule Number One: _don't fuck up_ _or_ _around on the job,_ and this violation was completely intentional. Every time I'd so much as _accidentally_ made a mistake on a job, I'd paid for it dearly, and immediately. So where was his anger now?

This was uncharted territory, and I continued to feel lost as we reached the area just behind the podium where the light was better. He made casual clucking sounds with his tongue as he gave my riddled arms a quick examination, then his eyes flicked up to the cuts along my hairline and he lifted his hand to rub a thumb with his usual briskness against one of them, making me flinch. "Yeaah, you _really_ got chewed up," he drawled, sliding the hand down to cup my cheek instead, meeting my eyes.

That savage light was gone. All I read was his usual malevolent cheer—neutral territory for him. He continued, nodding slightly as he spoke as if to encourage me to _play along_ and _agree_ with him: "But, ya see, Harl—" he broke off, clicking his tongue ruefully in his cheek and casting a quick squint towards the hostages—"I'm… _kinda_ in the middle of something, here. So maybe… wait _quietly_ until Daddy's finished working. Then—maybe we can talk about this—what was it, _bomb_? Yeah—the bomb that threw you off-course."

I stared at him, completely bewildered. Not only was it not like him to deal with me so gently when I screwed around in public, but it _definitely_ wasn't like him not to own up brazenly to his efforts to trick, trap, or harm me. For the first time, a sliver of doubt popped into my mind: _what if it wasn't actually him who set the bomb up? What if Maroni found out about the attack on the warehouse and decided to teach_ ** _us_** _a lesson first?_

Stranger things had happened. Slowly, I reached up to grasp his hand with mine.

Right before my fingers touched his glove, I saw it—the microscopic change in expression, that ugly look resurfacing once again in his eyes. Before I could pull away, his fingers tightened in the roots of my hair, and all at once— _ **BANG**_ —he'd smashed my forehead directly against the wooden pulpit.

The hit wasn't a glancing one, either. My knees turned to butter, and as they folded beneath me, he let go of my hair, letting me drop to the platform in a graceless heap. Releasing a breathy groan of pain, I managed to turn my head just enough to keep an eye on him, but he seemed to have completely forgotten about me now that I'd been dealt with, stepping over me like I was little more than a sack of dirty laundry and addressing the hostages— _"Now, then_ "—as if nothing had happened at all.

The casual dismissal was the last straw. He'd attempted to kill me, he'd manipulated me into entertaining the idea that _it might not actually have been him,_ he'd bashed my forehead open on the podium… but for him to just act like I was another problem dealt with, another mess left behind for his henchmen to clean up—that was just too much.

I felt my blood boiling, but I forced myself to hold off for a moment as I tried to blink the stars away from my vision. I had no intention of struggling upright only to stumble dizzily right off the stage. I clenched my toes, my fists, ensuring that I still had a decent amount of muscle control, and I gritted my teeth as the explosions of light finally retreated from the center of my vision to the edges before finally disappearing altogether.

_Now. About that no-good son of a bitch._

I reeled myself upright. The Joker's back was confidently to me as he addressed the hostages with some sarcastically earnest bullshit about them being _God's chosen,_ some tidbit of torment I might have appreciated if I'd been feeling a little more friendly towards him, and I cracked a vicious smile, tasting blood and knowing that I must have bitten my tongue, that the red must be streaking my teeth. _That's right, go on pretending I'm done with. It'll cost you._

Quietly, I got to my knees, then slowly rose to my feet. A henchman further down the aisle cleared his throat, but he didn't dare interrupt the Joker while he was in showman mode (probably a smart idea, actually). I crept silently a little closer, ignoring the dizziness and the heavy throbbing pain in my head that signaled a concussion—this wouldn't be the first time I'd powered through one. I came within three feet of his turned back.

Then, I launched myself at him.

I'd have given anything to have seen his face when I landed on his back, but I would have to settle for the startled rush of air as it was knocked out of him, signifying the cutoff of his monologue. My jump was nothing to sneeze at—I'd had quite a bit of practice at hand-to-hand combat to strengthen me by that point, and I was a gymnast besides—but the Joker was almost impossible to knock down (I'd seen him withstand explosions that knocked everyone around him to the ground as if they were nothing but particularly explosive sneezes), so as it was, I forewent trying to tackle him around his waist and instead landed on his shoulders. The impact forced him to stumble forward a few feet, but he stayed mostly upright.

Before he could recover, I got my legs around his waist and one arm around his neck, clinging to him like a tree frog. With my free hand, I drilled several punches directly to the back of his skull, hissing at him with every blow: " _Take… that… you… crooked… bastard!_ "

A low, primal growling sound was the only warning I got before his arms shot up, hands reaching behind his head, closing around my neck. I let out a startled yelp, jerking back, but his grip was tight despite the awkward angle, and he bowed over, holding me tight by the throat just beneath the jawline and _yanking._

I could probably have kept my legs locked around him and just let him tug fruitlessly away at my head, but my survival instinct told me that probably wasn't the best option. I loosened my grip and let him fling me off of his back and to the floor.

I knew as I landed that I'd made a mistake. Now, he had the indisputable position of power: he was standing and I was down on the ground. My only hope was to scramble upright and away from him, to recover before he could reach me, and I made a valiant effort, but I was only halfway up before he planted the toe of his boot somewhere in the right side of my ribcage.

The pain lanced like lightning throughout my torso, and I shrieked, the force propelling me onto my back—but that was an even worse position than being on my stomach, and I flipped to my stomach again, trying to get my arms and legs under me so I could scramble away to some semblance of safety.

I knew it was futile even before I felt one hand clutching at the back of my shirt, the other gripping my hair again. I recognized the grip and managed to get halfway up before he _yanked,_ painfully pulling me the rest of the way to my feet.

We were facing the stained glass window that Westy was guarding, though he'd wisely taken a step or two away from the brawling clowns. I felt cold horror start to pool in my chest as the hand in my hair slipped down, knotting itself in the back beltline of my pants instead. "J, _don't_ —!" I tried to plead.

It was the most I managed to get out before he lifted me literally off of my feet and flung me bodily through the window.

It seems cliché to say that _time slowed down_ or anything like that. Rather, it was more like I was hyperaware of every little detail, even if I was powerless to change them—I remembered the tinkle of glass pieces clinking into each other on their way down the ten or so feet to the ground, the slick shine of the damp patch of asphalt I was heading toward, and, most of all, the way my right hand looked, stretched out in front of me slightly ahead of the left to try to break my fall.

Then: collision.

White hot pain shot up my right arm, so sharp and immediate that I didn't even notice the way the asphalt scraped my face and shoulder or how the broken glass that had accompanied me outside punctured my shirt and the skin of my arms. I managed with difficulty to roll myself onto my back, feeling the need to cradle my wrist, to get it out from underneath me. With difficulty—I had trouble even moving the arm, it felt limp and crippled at my side—I dragged it up beneath my chest, clasping it with my mildly scraped left hand. The touch sent a fresh jolt of pain shooting up from the wrist, and I cried out in pain, unable to hold it back.

I heard shoes thump onto the asphalt nearby. I managed to drag my attention away from the arm, looking with dread over at the shoes' owner—the Joker had jumped out of the window to the road and was strolling over to join me, looking casually around to check out the surrounding streets. Vaguely, I registered the sound of sirens, but was in too much pain to be afraid. I just kept my eyes on the Joker's face, fearful and uncertain, waiting to see what he'd do.

He came to a stop just beside me. He still hadn't looked at me, and he took his time, even glancing over his shoulder at the gaping hole in the side of the church before finally lowering his eyes and fixing them on my face.

"Okay, J," I whispered hoarsely. "You win." Despite the pain, I summoned a wry, breathless chuckle, reflecting that I should have foreseen this outcome the very moment I decided to get answers from Toots.

He nodded absently, not necessarily agreeing, just signaling that my words had been heard. He glanced around again as he pulled a glove off with his teeth, seemed to notice that the sirens were growing closer, and then, as clowns came spilling out of the broken window and the doors of the church, he stooped down beside me. I cringed, worried that he was going to try to touch my injured wrist, or worse, take the beating even further, but he just reached up to my face with his freshly bared hand.

I couldn't even manage to hate myself for leaning into the touch.

He stroked my bloodied face with his usual just-shy-of-bruising 'tender' touch, irritating the fresh wounds there and doubtless tracing paths of blood down my cheek, but I didn't flinch, just keeping my eyes on him, willing him to meet my gaze, to give me some further indication that we were all right.

Finally, he did. The eye contact was accompanied by a quick, toothy grin, the one he used when he was being "charming," and the fingers against my face gripped my cheek, pinching the skin painfully. "Send me a postcard, doll."

Then he was standing up, turning away from me, striding towards the street where the van they'd brought was parked. He got a few paces away before it registered.

"J?" I called, hating how weak and desperate I sounded but unwilling to just keep quiet and let him go. "J, _don't_ —"

And _that_ was where I discovered I couldn't draw enough breath to keep going. With everything I'd been through that night, my body had just had enough, and I found that I couldn't even keep my head up. I dropped it to the pavement, still following the Joker's movements with my eyes. I could barely find enough breath to cry, but somehow I did, releasing deep, suffocating sobs as I watched him climb into the van without a glance back, watched the van screech away from the curb, listened as the sound of its engine faded.

Not two minutes later, the sirens closed in on me.

* * *

I opened my eyes to find that I was crying again, though unlike last night, the tears didn't threaten to choke me—they were simply slipping steadily down my damp face and had clearly been doing so for a while.

I'd been taken to the ER and diagnosed with severely bruised ribs, a distal radius fracture of the right wrist, a bad concussion, and countless lacerations, scrapes, and bruises all over my upper body. In a way, the time spent handcuffed to the hospital bed was the worst. Not only was I coming to terms with the fact that I had been abandoned to the police by the person I cared most about in the world, but I had to weather pitying look after pitying look from the female nurses, one of whom even had the gall to give me literature on leaving and recovering from abusive relationships. These were citizens of Gotham City, people who should be _terrified_ of me and the man I represented, but here they were, seeing me at my weakest and lowest. It was humiliating.

It was almost a relief, then, when I was deemed well enough to be released from the hospital and was officially arrested. From that point on, it was a flurry of police station interrogation rooms (where I incidentally developed my rule about not speaking of the Joker), games of good cop bad cop, threats, unwarranted manhandling, camera flashbulbs, hearings… I was numb to it all. I was heartbroken, injured—I just didn't care.

It wasn't until I landed in Arkham that my mood, never bad for long, started to improve. Oh, I was still miserable, still aching and weak and stuck in the hellhole where I'd used to work, completely divorced from the absolute freedom to which I'd grown accustomed _._ But by that point, most of my sadness and resentment had disappeared. I had gained some perspective of the whole situation.

Payback for my stunt in February was inevitable. I'd known it at the time, and I'd handcuffed him to that bed with eyes wide open—I'd been perfectly willing to accept the consequences if it meant he'd recover from his illness. Just because those consequences caught me by surprise when they finally came around didn't mean I hadn't agreed to take them when they did.

I'd made myself another promise back in February. I'd promised myself that no matter what the Joker did, I was going to stick with him, a promise born of the skepticism he'd expressed to me while hallucinating, his doubt that I'd stay with him through thick and thin.

There was no way he was just going to let me rot in Arkham. He'd be too eager to test his theory, the theory that I'd leave him as soon as things got a little tough. He'd want to prove himself right, that the second he sprung me from this place, I would turn tail and flee the city, leaving him well behind.

I was ready to prove him wrong.

I still loved him, after all. Our relationship was practically _built_ on our ups and downs, the cuts and bruises, even the concussions and knife wounds—I was hardly going to bow out just because of a broken wrist, especially given the circumstances. Severe injuries were in the job description. No, I was over the whole ordeal and I missed him dearly, was ready to return home.

He was coming to get me. I knew it.

All I had to do was wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Harley, will you ever learn?
> 
> This is actually coming to you guys later than I wanted- I'd hoped to update by Friday, but as always, life wriggled in- or more specifically, family, friends, and a pair of huge dogs who require lots of attention. It's been a busy weekend. Hopefully the Joker's presence (even via flashback) makes up for it. For the record- Harley and J just having it out in a church in front of hostages was quite possibly the very first image I got when I was making plans for this sequel.
> 
> Song's on the blog; it's a particular favorite (Tom Waits and the Joker fit REALLY well together) and quite possibly the Joker's anthem, at least when it comes to Harley, so enjoy that. You guys have been utterly lovely with your support and feedback. Thank you so much! It means a lot.


	6. keep on your mean side

_Don't you leave me here_  
_Don't you leave me here_  
_Get my name stitched on your lips so you won't get hitched.  
_

 **-The Kills,** _**Hitched ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lo4eKy5VtcI))** _

It had been a shitty week.

Not that Arkham was known for producing _non_ -shitty weeks, but even by Arkham Asylum standards, my week had been one of the worst I'd experienced since my incarceration.

It started with Jonathan.

It happened the very day I'd attacked him with the cafeteria tray, though I didn't find out about it until the next morning. Apparently, while he was in the infirmary being checked out for any lasting injuries from my attack, he'd produced a shiv from somewhere on his person and gone after the infirmary nurse.

In this case, 'gone after' meant that he had held her at knifepoint until she'd surrendered her keys and her scrubs, then, showing a truly inspired amount of innovation, he tied her to one of the infirmary cots with ace bandages, binding her mouth with yet another one. He ditched his glasses, put on her scrubs, and waltzed right out of Arkham Asylum. He'd chosen his time well, doubtless informed by his time as director—lunch was busy, requiring all the extra orderlies to be on the floor in the cafeteria keeping an eye on the inmates, and the fact that it was also a shift change ensured that security would be sparse. He used her keycard to access the staff garage, took her car, and used it to ram the exit gate. The police had been called, but by that point, it was too late—all Jonathan needed to do was get out of those walls and get a good head start, and he'd done both.

None of this was explicitly told to me, of course. It wasn't exactly staff policy to inform the inmates of another inmate's escape—wouldn't do to put any untoward ideas in our heads, after all. However, Arkham staff was the absolute _worst_ for gossip—almost as bad as J's henchmen—and I managed to garner the majority of the details during art therapy. All I had to do was position my canvas near the two orderlies who were whispering to each other and pretend to focus completely on the shitty house I was painting while actually keeping my ears perked.

It was by doing this that I was able to pick up on an interesting detail about Crane's little escape, one that I certainly wasn't supposed to hear: once he'd finished up in the infirmary and was heading out the door, he paused, glanced back at the helpless nurse, and casually said, "Oh, and you should tell Harley _thank you_ for helping me out. She played her part _perfectly._ "

When I heard that, I was livid. It was all I could do not to react visibly—there wasn't much I could do about the color that I felt rising in my cheeks, but I was otherwise careful not to let on that I'd heard. My painting suffered that day, though. What had started out as a halfway-passable house ended up being an angry smear of brownish-black on my canvas. Dr. Mori's worried looks multiplied.

 _The nerve of that little pipsqueak!_ Suddenly, his constant attention over the past couple of weeks made sense—he'd been carefully goading me, finding my pressure points and figuring out exactly what to say and when to say it so he'd get sent to the infirmary exactly when he wanted to. Hell, the least he could have done was to take me with him, and he didn't even do _that._

Not only that, but his throwaway comment to the nurse saddled me with an uncomfortable amount of suspicion. I was still restricted from communal areas and therefore spent the majority of time in my cell, but every time I _did_ leave, I was the focus of what felt like every backup orderly's scrutiny. Leave it to Jonathan to stir the pot right before he left, convincing everybody that I'd intentionally helped him escape. It left me wishing I'd fought to beat him up a little more. Okay, a _lot_ more.

Dr. Leland noticed my twitchy annoyance later on that day during our first "official" session and commented on it, but aside from protesting my innocence in the matter, I declined to go into further detail and she didn't push me. Our meeting was very light, and I got the distinct sense that she was holding off on the stronger stuff until we'd gotten better acquainted, until she'd forged a bond of sorts with me. That was fine by me—the longer it took her to start pushing for some real information, the longer I could pretend I was willing to work with her, which would hopefully keep Wilson off my back.

Only it didn't.

The next day, a Friday, I was minding my own business, alone in my cell, when the door unlocked and opened to admit my orderly. "Come on, Miss Quinzel, let's go."

I stared at him, uncomprehending. "Go where?"

He gave me a warning look. "You _know_ you've got regular sessions Friday afternoons."

 _David._ I felt a stab of annoyance. "Yeah," I said, "but I finally committed to a therapist. Dr. Leland, remember? You've taken me to my sessions. I'm not supposed to get passed around anymore; she's my doctor now."

He was shaking his head. "Dr. Wilson is the director, Miss Quinzel, and he says weekly sessions with him are supposed to continue. Now, you take it up with him if you have a problem with it—I'm just doing my job."

"Oh, I _will_ take it up with him," I muttered, striding past him out of the cell door and setting a quick pace for the elevator. He caught up easily, fixing me with a warning look.

"Miss Quinzel, you're not planning on starting any trouble, are you?"

"Who, me?" I flashed him a grin, which, given my state of mind, probably came across as more predatory than reassuring. "Butter wouldn't melt."

"Sure it wouldn't," he grumbled as we got into the elevator and started our descent.

Neither of us seemed very interested in pursuing the topic, and so it was in silence that he escorted me to the usual room, put me inside, and cuffed me. I was waiting for a full five minutes before David showed up, and in that time managed to grow quite annoyed with my ex-friend.

Naturally, I started in on him as soon as he came in the door. "What the hell is this, David? I'm working with Joan Leland now."

"Good afternoon to you, too, Harley," he said pointedly, crossing the room and taking the seat across from me, dropping his files to the table. "Yes, I heard that you'd showed a willingness to work with Dr. Leland. I'm glad. I thought you might like her."

I scoffed, turning my head and staring at the wall to my left so I wouldn't have to look at him, arms folded so tightly beneath my chest that I imagined I could feel ghost pains from my long-healed ribcage. "I thought the _point_ of all those sessions with different therapists was to find one that I wanted to actually _talk_ to."

"It _was_ ," he said, sounding genuinely puzzled.

I glanced sharply back at him. "And that the point of these weekly sessions with _you_ was to give me some stability until I found someone else more permanent."

"Well," he said carefully, "yes, but… I'm not willing to jump the gun and let your structure collapse until I feel certain that you and Joan will work out. I intend to keep meeting with you weekly until I see signs that Joan really _is_ the right doctor for you."

"What, she isn't and you are?" I asked, my tone aggressively sarcastic. He shook his head and dropped his eyes to the tabletop, but before he could begin to formulate any sort of elaboration, I leaned forward and lowered my voice, making it just a touch more threatening: "Do I need to remind you about what happened the last time an asylum director kept trying new doctors on the resident clown psycho _after_ it had become clear who the _right_ doctor was?"

His gaze shot up to meet mine, and he spoke before he could run his words through the "doctor" filter that made everything he said calm, careful, and inoffensive: "You _were not_ the right doctor for him."

That gave me pause, and I sat thoughtfully back into my chair. "No. No, I suppose not." _Because he wasn't sick and he didn't_ _need_ _a doctor. He didn't_ _ **need**_ _anyone, but he certainly got someone—the only someone in this entire asylum who had a shot at halfway-understanding him._ I kept those thoughts to myself.

Wilson, having been given a few seconds to recover himself, cleared his throat and reached out to flip open the file in front of him. "I'd like to discuss Jonathan Crane."

I'd resumed staring at the wall to my left, arms petulantly folded again, and at Wilson's request, I raised my eyebrows and shook my head without letting my gaze waver. "I don't want to talk about him."

"I know how gossip is in this institution. I'd be lucky if a single patient hadn't heard about his escape—what I'm interested in discussing is the fact that he indicated that you assisted him in his breakout."

"Please," I growled. "Even _you're_ not gullible enough to believe I'm altruistic enough to help him escape without ensuring that I got out of this dump myself at the same time."

Wilson didn't say anything for a moment, possibly hoping that if he let the silence linger, then I might look at him. Stoically, I started counting the flecks of… something on the wall. The whole thing was spattered down with spots that were that weird color between brown, green, and yellow. _Snot or vomit?_

Wilson caved first, of course—he never could just let the silence lie. Quietly, even gently, he said, "The Harley I knew wouldn't have minded putting a friend first if she felt like he needed her help."

I sighed and permitted myself an eyeroll behind briefly-closed lids. If I cared to, I could explain to him that a.) Jonathan was _not_ my friend, especially not _now,_ and b.) the Harley _he_ knew was long dead and gone, so she wasn't exactly a good frame of reference. I didn't want to get into that, though, had no desire to give him a hand in prying my skull open. Instead, I said, "I don't want to talk about this."

"Why does this topic make you uncomfortable?"

 _Idiot. Reaching for some evidence that I'm still the girl he knew._ Finally, I looked at him, and by that point, I was glaring. " _No!_ I don't want to talk about this, David, and I'll tell you something else, I don't want to meet with you anymore, either."

"Harley—"

I'd gotten going, though, and this was a tantrum long in the making. Usually, I kept my protests to sullen snippiness, unwilling to make too large a ripple in the oppressive space of the asylum, but today I couldn't seem to contain myself—and I knew exactly why. It was because of the shit he pulled at the end of last week's session, and I intended to tell him so.

"I mean," I said, cutting him off and giving him a look of utter scorn, "whatwere you even _doing_ last week, anyway? Leaving me locked away in the dark? Playing recordings of _his_ voice? What the fuck kind of sick game are you _playing_ , David, and what makes you think that bullshit's going to do anything, anyway?"

Wilson went very still, and as I glared at him, he met my eyes. "You say you heard his voice in the dark?"

 _Oh, no you don't._ The whole thing, up to his body language and the way he was looking at me, was way too calculated. I tilted my head back and laughed angrily. "Oh, don't you _dare_ give me that."

"Harley, if you're having auditory hallucinations—"

"Auditory hallucinations, my ass! I recognized what I _heard_ , David; it was spliced recordings from our old sessions—all flash, no substance." He kept staring at me, kept up the act. I glared at him again. "You're telling me you had no idea that I was left alone in the dark after you left last week? That _someone_ piped in doctored recordings of his voice for me to listen to while I sat in here unable to escape them?"

Wilson had somehow found a pen and was scribbling on his clipboard, though he didn't look down at the paper, staring hard at me instead. "What did he say, Harley?"

 _Unbelievable._ I shook my head at him, feeling the incredulous expression take over my face. "Are you _serious_? You're going to keep this up?"

"Harley…" He paused and set his pen down, lacing his hands together in front of him, a gesture I recognized as indicating that he was about to say something people might not want to hear. "I didn't do that."

I stared back at him, and for a moment, I found myself considering the possibility that perhaps he was telling the truth—but _no,_ I told myself violently, _for someone else to do it they'd have to know that he was planning to leave early and that I'd be left alone for however long, and I_ _ **know**_ _it wasn't me—auditory hallucinations don't just show up without warning._

"You know what?" I asked lowly, dropping my eyes to the table and forming my words very carefully. "I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed because this kind of trickery does _nothing_ to actually heal people, which means you've graduating from trying to _help_ me—a misguided effort to begin with, but at least well-intentioned—to trying to _prove_ that I'm crazy. It's no longer about the patient now, it's about your own ego… which, I suppose, is one of the drawbacks of becoming director. David, I'm disappointed. Mostly, though—"

I lifted my gaze from the table, making eye contact for a brief moment. "Mostly, I'm _pissed off._ "

I lunged.

The quiet, calm speech had its effect, lulling Wilson into a sense of security (and superiority, I imagine—whether I was _actually_ crazy or not, what was more damning than a mental patient accusing her doctor of being out to get her? He would look good in the session footage later, but I didn't really give a damn). As a result, he was taken completely off-guard by my attack, and when I came over the table at him, he was barely able to throw his arms up before I knocked him out of his chair, wrapping my hands around his neck on the way down.

I felt my blood hot in my veins as we landed hard on the floor, me half on top of him, and I swear, it _sang_ as I tightened my fingers around his throat. I could feel myself smiling hard even as he grabbed at my face, scratched my cheek, because this was a _long_ time coming, because I'd been _dying_ to throttle Wilson ever since he walked in to my first session as a _patient_ in Arkham with that false sympathy barely concealing the intolerable smugness he wore just beneath. The chance to show him the consequences of fucking with me would be worth any punishment they saw fit to dole out in response to the attack.

Of course, that was _before_ the door opened, the orderly came bursting in, and I got jabbed hard with a needle even as my fingers were pried away from Wilson's neck.

Anti-psychotic sedatives. I genuinely despised them.

I spent the next twenty-four hours drifting, weakened and sleepy but just aware enough to register how helpless I was and to hate it. Once I _did_ come out of it, I spent the next day throwing up—a pretty common reaction to a day spent sedated, which didn't help my feelings towards the drugs. Altogether, it took me roughly until Monday to completely get that shaky, exhausted, sick feeling out of my system.

I'd had better weekends.

No sooner was I released from the infirmary than I was returned to my cell, where, I was informed, I was to be confined alone until a resolution to my violent behavior of late was found. I was perfectly fine with that. The way things had gone lately, only bad things had happened whenever I left my cell, anyway, and although I was by nature a social creature, nothing even close to "socializing" could really happen inside of the suffocating walls of the Asylum.

Especially with Jonathan gone. Not for the first time, I cursed him for bailing and leaving me alone in this place.

Several days passed in a moody haze—I slept a lot, only really rousing myself to poke at my food. Finally, sometime mid-week, Dr. Leland came to my cell.

She brought a chair with her, and an orderly I didn't recognize stationed himself against the back wall, sending me sternly warning looks whenever I glanced over at him. Leland set the chair up opposite my bunk and had a seat.

"Good evening, Doctor Quinzel," she greeted me pleasantly, quite as if the meeting were taking place under normal circumstances.

I hadn't been aware it _was_ evening. Slowly, I brought my bare feet up on the bunk, leaning back against the wall and folding my legs Indian-style. "Dr. Leland," I greeted her warily.

"I'm aware these aren't usual circumstances, but given that Dr. Wilson doesn't want to lift the confinement order quite yet, I had to come to _you_. I hope you don't object."

At the mention of Wilson, I grinned a little. "No, I imagine he wouldn't want me roaming around the Asylum right now, would he? How does his throat look?"

"Dr. Quinzel, you know it was wrong to assault him." I pulled a mocking sad face, signifying my disappointment in her unwillingness to play long, but she went on: "Debates about violence aside, you're an intelligent woman—you know that such displays of a lack of self-control will not make you any friends. Out of self-interest alone, I would have expected you to refrain."

I shrugged. I wasn't about to let her know that I didn't mind being alone if it meant not having to hang out with anyone else in the Asylum, and I also had no intention of telling her that I didn't care what my doctors thought about me, because I wasn't going to be here forever.

Fortunately, she didn't wait around to see if her mini-lecture sunk in. She flipped some pages on the clipboard she carried and moved on. "Speaking of making friends, I'd like to talk to you about your friends today, if that's all right." She caught my warning glance and nodded reassuringly at me. "I won't press you to speak about anyone you don't wish to talk about. That said—I assume you know that we have visitors' hours one weekend every month?"

Slowly, I nodded. I didn't know where she was going with this, but neither was I particularly keen to find out.

"And, going by the date of your commitment, you've been here for… _three_ of those visitor's weekends. I checked the logs, and as it appears, no one has come to see you." Her eyes flicked over the page, confirming, and then she looked over her clipboard at me. I didn't offer anything, so she prodded, gently: "Is there no one for you outside of this asylum?"

I chuckled wryly, debated not responding, but I met her eyes and thought _eh, what the hell._ She wasn't pressing me to talk about the Joker yet, and she _definitely_ wasn't a David Wilson, trying to find and breathe life into the skeleton of a girl who no longer existed. The thought _did_ cross my mind that she and Wilson were good-cop-bad-copping me, but given the nature of the questioning, I doubted it—and even if it was true, I found that I didn't care much.

Maybe being alone in my cell for so long was having more of an effect on me than I initially thought.

I rolled my neck from side to side, breaking eye contact as I told her "It's probably more accurate to say that there's no one for me _inside_ of this asylum."

"I don't think that's true," she said softly. I shrugged, unwilling to argue the point, and she got right back on track. "So if there are people for you outside of these walls, why haven't they come to visit?"

I looked pointedly at her out of the corner of my eye for a moment, daring her to voice the logical conclusion on her own. When she didn't, I gave her a little bit of help. "Well, as you know, I run with a decidedly… _criminal_ element. So, logically, the only people who would want to come see me are either _criminals_ —in which case it would be suicide to come here—or they're friends that _aren't_ criminals, in which case they'd hardly want to make any association with me public. Imagine—neighbors harassing them for daring to be friendly with _me,_ cops showing up on their doorsteps any time I was in trouble or unaccounted for…"

 _Or maybe they're supposed to be dead, have a new identity, and don't want to blow their cover on something like a prison visit._ I suddenly missed Pam.

I didn't mention her, though. I just shrugged and showed my hands. "There are any number of reasons my friends aren't here. I don't hold it against them."

Leland was quiet just long enough for me to sense that I wouldn't like what she was about to say, and then she asked, "And your father?"

The smile froze on my face. Leland, like any good therapist, didn't increase the pressure too much, but neither did she relieve it. "I checked your history. Your father is alive and well in Robinson County, just an hour away. I understand why it might be painful, but… do you think you might could venture forth a guess as to why he hasn't come to see his only living family member?"

There was a lump in my throat that I had to swallow past before I could speak, but it wasn't due to sadness. "I don't have to guess," I finally said, trying hard to keep my tone bland, trying not to let the bitterness I was feeling seep through. "He knows as well as anyone why I'm in here, and he's ashamed. He always was one for _conditional_ love."

"You think that your father is ignoring you because of your criminal activities?"

"Again: I don't think, I _know._ "

She watched me for a minute before jotting something briefly down on the notepad. "For you to be so certain of that… well, it indicates a history."

"Of him being withholding and cold and a _slavedriver_? Yeah, no, I'm definitely aware of that. I'm also aware of the _implications,_ " I said pointedly, avoiding meeting her stare, "but I promise you, I had and _have_ no interest in dating my father as some form of conflict resolution. My… current relationship status is unrelated."

Unlike ninety-nine percent of the therapists in the asylum, she didn't latch onto the "relationship status" part of that sentence, didn't try to get me to elaborate. Instead, she just looked at me and said, "You know what I'm going to say in response to that."

"Yes, I do," I sighed, "but trust me—I've had plenty of time to think about my issues with my father as they relate to my current life. The only effect they could realistically have had is that, lacking guidance from him, I sought it out elsewhere."

Leland watched me for another moment, then nodded smartly. "That's a very self-aware observation, Dr. Quinzel, and a good starting place as well. But not for today. Dr. Wilson told me I should keep things brief."

I blinked at her as she got up. "Wow. That _was_ brief."

She turned concerned eyes on me. "I don't _have_ to go if you feel like talking about this more."

"No, no," I hastened to say. I _definitely_ did not want to talk about my father. "It's fine. Next time."

"Next time," she agreed, nodding. She paused, and as the orderly moved to unlock and open the door, she said, "In the interim, I'd like you to think about… your connections outside of this place. Aside from him. Er, the Joker, that is. I'd like to talk more about your friendships soon."

I nodded, playing along. "I'll… I'll do that."

She gave me a brief smile, then picked up her chair and left. The orderly followed, and I was alone again.

And depressed.

It was weird, but seeing Dr. Leland, talking to another human being for the first time in days, talking about my friends, however indirectly—it threw my feelings of isolation into sharp relief, and I felt lonelier than I had in a long while.

For the first time since I came into the asylum, I had a creeping feeling of doubt.

_Maybe he's not coming for me after all._

No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I shook my head violently, as if I could expel it by force. _No! No, Harley, you can't doubt him like that. He's_ _ **coming**_ _. He'll get you out._

I curled up on my bunk, over the covers, trying to feel reassured but feeling emptiness in the pit of my stomach despite myself. _Come on, Harley. This is the guy who infiltrated and blew up the MCU with about the amount of effort it took to lift a pinky finger. Getting into Arkham Asylum will be no problem for him._

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.

_If that's the case, then why hasn't he come for me yet?_

I twisted again, turning angrily towards the wall—angry at myself, angry at my stupid weakness. Obviously, self-reassurance wasn't working. I found myself casting about instead for memories of him, memories that might help me pretend he wasn't so far away.

In moments, one was swimming through the ether towards me.

* * *

_It was mid-April, right in the midst of the honeymoon phase between me and J that would serve to lull me into a false sense of security by the date of the confrontation a month later. All that was in the future, though, and the Joker, the crew, and I were enjoying warmer weather, a new hideout, and…_

_The first bank robbery of the spring._

_Banks were suicide these days unless you had a good plan, but the Joker never seemed to have any shortage of them. This one had been going along without a hitch until Ace caught one of the tellers going for the silent alarm out of the corner of his eye. There was shouting, some bullets flew, and the teller dropped, along with a couple of the hostages that had been unfortunate enough to come into the bank that morning._

_The Joker barked at the guys to finish up,_ _**fast** _ _, and I hopped over to the group of hostages huddled together near where one of their number had dropped in the shooting. The victim was a woman, and as I leaned over her to get a better look, I saw what she was holding in her arms._

_Gently, I reached out and removed the pink bundle from her slack grip, delighted to feel movement and see that the spatter of red on the blanket belonged to the woman rather than the blanket's occupant. Smiling, I turned and called out to the Joker._

" _Look, J!" I pushed the blanket back to reveal a pink little face and tiny little fingers clutching at the edge. I made a cooing noise and offered my index finger to the infant, pleased when she latched on tight. "Look, it's a baby!"_

" _I can see it."_

_His wary tone made me look up to see him standing across the room, shoulders hunched slightly, making no move to approach and look. I frowned. "What's wrong?" I asked, taking a step towards him._

_He took a step back._

_I froze, looked at his face, looked down at the face of the baby I held, and then tried hard (and unsuccessfully) to hold back a grin. "You're_ _**scared** _ _of her."_

" _I am_ _ **not**_ _." It sounded like petulance to me, and I bit my knuckle trying not to laugh._

_Recovering quickly, I shifted the baby in my arms. I knew I shouldn't press the issue, but this was just too good—I couldn't resist. "Well then. You should hold her." I stretched the bundle out to him, and this time, more prepared, he didn't recoil. He did, however, shoot me a look of total disgust._

" _I don't_ _ **want**_ _to hold it. Put it_ _ **down**_ _, Harley._ _ **Jee**_ _-suss."_

_This time I couldn't keep from laughing, albeit softly, as I reached down and chucked the baby gently under the chin. "It's okay, sweetie, he doesn't deal much with little ones," I told her, and then gently reached over and nestled her into her mother's arms again. I looked up to see that the men had finished up and that the Joker had turned away and was leaving, and I hurried along behind him, still grinning._

_I climbed into the passenger seat of the van and folded my arms, fully aware that a certain intolerable smugness was just rolling off of me. The Joker, in the driver's seat, must have sensed it, too, because he said, "I'm not_ _**afraid** _ _of them. They're just_ _**useless** _ _. They cry and shit everywhere… and they're like, ah, little people, but they can't_ _**do** _ _anything, and they have to be taken_ _**care** _ _of."_

" _What," I said, still grinning hard, "your usual approach of 'if I don't want to eat it then I kill it' doesn't work with them?"_

 _He rolled his eyes over to me. "Well, what's the_ _**point** _ _?" he asked plaintively. "It's like killin' animals. They don't understand what's going on, so it's not any_ _**fun** _ _. Er. Unless their_ _**parents** _ _are watching, that is."_

_"What are you guys talking about?" asked Javier, popping his head forward._

_"I found a baby in the bank and J does_ _**not** _ _like babies," I said, still having way too much fun with this new discovery._

" _Yeah, but who_ _ **does**_ _like babies?" Javier asked, snorting._

" _I happen to like them just fine," I informed him loftily, and I practically felt him freeze._

" _Yeah, this is not a conversation I want… to…" He trailed off and then vanished into the back of the van._

 _Laughing, I shifted into the middle, turned around, and peered into the back. "Wuss! What, do you think J and I are about to have_ _**the talk** _ _right here and now in front of—"_

_Whatever I was about to say was lost as I heard a muffled curse beside me, and the Joker slamming suddenly on the brakes had me flying backwards into the dashboard—_

* * *

I was interrupted by the sound of the door unlocking and creaking open. I opened my eyes, and blearily, I rolled over—the tray with dinner had come an hour ago; I wasn't expecting anyone else till morning.

An orderly stood there, yet another unfamiliar face. His eyes flitted everywhere and he seemed twitchy, yet another indicator that something was up. Slowly, I sat up on my bunk.

His eyes found me. He opened his mouth, formed a few soundless syllables, and then, finally, blurted: "Harley Quinn?"

I felt my shoulders tense. No one called me that in here. I stared him in the eye, gave a short, decisive nod.

He stepped away from the doorframe. "Come with me. Quickly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I'm a dick for leaving it there, but IN FAIRNESS, this chapter marks the conclusion of the first act of the story so for the sake of atmosphere and theme I NEEDED to cut it off there. Second act begins with the next chapter; maybe we'll find out what's actually going on in the city now. HEY, PRISON BREAK! YEAH!
> 
> More Joker in the next chapter, but all it's going to do is make y'all pissed at me, so-- sorry in advance?
> 
> Full disclosure, I have no idea if you can actually tie someone up with ace bandages. I imagine you can, at least temporarily, because those things are a bastard to try to tear, but eh. What a jerk that Jonathan guy is, huh?
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read, commented, and/or left kudos. You guys fuel me. :)


	7. joker, meet you on the other side

_You can't miss me—I'm still alive_  
_snake skin shoes; I'm pleading homicide_  
_come on and feel this: I'm still alive_  
_Joker, meet you on the other side_

_**\- Kasabian, Vlad the Impaler ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PjmSIilslLQ))** _

I was off of the bunk in a second, but as I stepped towards him, he held out a hand. "One second," he said, then leaned out of view, only to re-emerge with a gym bag, which he tossed at me. "Change first."

I raised an eyebrow, but hey, if he thought I'd look less suspicious walking through the mental asylum in anything other than the orange jumpsuit, I wasn't going to question it. Besides—I was sick of the jumpsuit.

"I'll keep watch," he muttered and stepped out of view, and I set about dumping the contents of the gym bag to the floor. It was jeans, motorcycle boots, and a plain black t-shirt, all in my size, though the jeans looked a little long. I didn't care. The sight of civilian clothes confirmed my suspicions—this was a prison break—and I'd stripped down and put on the new clothes in less than a minute. I was kicking my jumpsuit under the bunk when the orderly peeked around the door frame.

"Okay. Let's go."

He didn't have to tell me twice. Without wasting a second, I strode briskly from my shitty little cell into the hallway beyond. As I swept past the orderly, he turned and fell into step beside me, keeping pace and taking my elbow. I didn't ask questions, and he didn't offer an explanation. He just steered me down the empty hall, head turning to and fro as he checked, over and over again, to ensure that we were alone.

"Word of advice," I said, my voice just above a whisper, "don't look so guilty."

He ignored me, pushing me towards the door that led to the stairs. I went willingly.

We climbed down two flights, the orderly looking over the railing every three seconds to make sure that no one else was entering from one of the doors below, and I wondered vaguely who exactly this guy was and why he was doing this, but figured that now was _not_ the time to ask.

"Here," he said once we reached the second floor exit. I paused and glanced uncertainly at him—because I knew exactly where this hallway went. It led to the employee garage, which also happened to be the way I infiltrated the asylum in November the year before in order to bust the Joker out. At the time, it had sported little more security than a magnetic keycard-activated lock and cameras in the halls. They'd have to be crazier than the inmates not to have bulked it up by now.

"What?" demanded the orderly, irritated at my hesitation. "Come _on!_ "

"Okay," I said with a shrug, "you're the mastermind." With that, I pushed through the door.

I was definitely right—there was new security in the form of a metal detector and a tall, young security guard to oversee it, as well as to oversee the comings and goings of the asylum employees. When my escort didn't falter, I determined to keep up the pace and look confident. If he wasn't worried, then neither was I.

As we approached, the security guard glanced over his shoulder and then stepped towards us. I half expected my escort to pull out a knife, to gut him here and there, and I was surprised when the guard spoke in an angry half-whisper: "Where have you been? You were supposed to have her down here an hour ago!"

My eyebrows shot up. I glanced at the orderly, wanting to see how he'd respond.

Furiously, as it turned out. "One of the doctors had an unscheduled in-cell session with her! I almost walked in on them—what was I supposed to do, tell them I was interrupting them cause the psycho was scheduled for a breakout?"

"I object to that," I remarked brightly. They both ignored me.

"Look, whatever, man. Just get her out, and _fast_."

"I _am,_ " hissed the orderly, taking my elbow again. He towed me towards the exit, and as we approached the security guard's station, I spotted the latter giving me the dirtiest look I'd seen since the first time I'd used the term "YOLO" in front of Jonathan (it was sarcasm, but the sarcasm lost some of its edge when I had to explain the meaning and subsequently weather the aforementioned dirty look).

I responded with a puzzled stare and a question. "What, did I kill your family, or something?"

I was unprepared when he actually made to lunge towards me, but before anything could develop, my orderly escort intervened, grabbing the guard by the shoulders and thrusting him back. "Easy, man! Come on. Let's just get this over with."

I was frowning as the orderly took my arm again, and I watched the guard until we were out in the garage and the door closed behind us, cutting him out of my view. _I haven't killed anybody's family. I mean, definitely not kids. Maybe…_ I mentally went through the list of people I'd killed since I shot Senator Jordan last October. That list was short. I preferred to take things from people, to scare them—killing was generally reserved for the purpose of self-defense or to protect the Joker. I didn't typically get anything out of it. All told, I highly doubted that I'd killed any of the security guard's family members.

J might have, though. However, if that was the case, what was the guard doing busting me out?

_Unless he's not busting you out. Unless J shot his wife or his brother or something and he's conspiring with this guy to get a little eye-for-an-eye revenge._

It was this thought that was circling around in my head when we reached what was presumably the orderly's car and he opened the trunk. I looked at him, looked at the trunk, and then looked back again.

"You're kidding."

He heaved a quick, bitter sigh. "You got a better idea for getting you out of here under their noses?"

I narrowed my eyes. _When in doubt, just ask outright. They usually aren't expecting that._ Bluntly, I asked, "You planning to get me out of here so you can kill me?"

He stared. "What? _No._ "

"Cause the security guard in there definitely didn't like me much."

"Well, he wouldn't," snapped the orderly.

"Uh-huh, and why is that?"

"Look, I— _we—_ really don't have time to stand around discussing this. Let me just say: if I wanted to kill you, I could do it in the asylum. So could Gus."

"Gus is the security guard?" I asked, eyes still narrowed speculatively.

" _Yes._ Now would you please—just get in the trunk?"

I maintained my suspicion for another second or two before acknowledging to myself that he had a point—and even if he didn't, I didn't exactly have a lot of options. It was either go back in the asylum or go with him and risk that he might have a grudge, and really, even if he _was_ planning to try to kill me, after three months in that hellhole, I was willing to take my chances.

I climbed in the trunk. He closed it.

"Spacious," I muttered sarcastically to myself, then sat quiet and listened.

I felt the car shift as he got in, heard his door close. The engine turned over, and then we were moving—slowly, moving along for a minute or two, and then we stopped. I heard faint voices, one of them belonging to the orderly, the other unfamiliar, neither of which I could make out. _Front exit security._ I held my breath. If the orderly had a bad reputation, if he seemed even slightly distracted, they might search his car, especially after the breakouts the asylum had dealt with in the last year.

The voices hummed for a full minute, and then we started moving forward, and I breathed, then fought laughter at the understanding that for the first time in months, I was outside of the asylum walls. "Of course, at least the cell was bigger than a car trunk, but I guess I can't complain," I said softly to myself, feeling giddy.

From that point on, all I could do was wait, and I didn't have to do that for long. We were driving for maybe five minutes before the car stopped and the engine was turned off. Another minute, and the orderly was opening the trunk and reaching for me. I was only too glad to climb out, noting as I did that he didn't hold any weapons that I could see. We were in what looked like an industrial lot, torn barbed wire in the peripherals, but judging by the lack of lights in the surrounding buildings and the cracked state of the asphalt, business had been suspended for a while.

Then, I was so distracted by the sight of the sky that I couldn't give two shits where we were or whether my liberator actually wanted to kill me.

Yeah, it was a city sky, and it was a _Gotham City_ sky at that, which meant that lights from the concentration of buildings reflected off of the considerable smog, obscuring the stars and dyeing the whole expanse a sort of dark red-brown instead of black or blue, but it was a sky I'd fallen in love with once I'd become part of the nightlife last winter, and I wouldn't trade it for all the country skies in the world. The sight of Gotham's polluted sky, more than anything, drove the point home: _I'm out._

The orderly pulled me back to earth, grabbing my arm again. "Here," he said, gesturing past the car. "This way."

I glanced in the direction he'd indicated and saw a waiting van. Leaning against the side of the van was a solo figure—unfamiliar, hood up, hands in his front pockets. The orderly walked me to the front of his car and stopped, calling across the ten-foot space between us and the strangers. "She's here. You have them?"

The stranger let his hood fall back—and I felt a grin split my face when I saw the clown mask. _I knew it._ He appeared to look at me, then nodded, reaching behind him to bang twice on the wall of the van.

The back doors opened and yielded two more clowns, each one dragging a ziptied, duct-taped woman behind him. I could feel the orderly's hand trembling on my arm at the sight of them, and it clicked into place.

 _Of course. Abduct family members of asylum workers with access to the cells and exits. Say they're doomed if you don't spring who we say. Anyone worth a damn won't care if he's caught on camera or implicated after the fact; all he'll want is to get his family back safe._ I felt my smile widen as I realized that we had a potentially permanent get out of jail free card here, and then I was being pushed forward by the orderly and realized that the clowns had sent the women, still tied, over towards us. It was clear that it was a sort of meet-in-the-middle situation, and I was only too happy to oblige, slipping out of the orderly's grip and walking steadily towards the van.

As I walked past the women, one of them shot me a filthy look. I didn't blame her. I'd probably be pretty pissed if I'd been kidnapped just to provide leverage. I put it out of my mind and was practically skipping by the time I reached the clowns at the van.

Before I could say anything, though, the hooded clown who'd been waiting for us called out lazily to the three civilians across the parking lot: "Remember, Rivera. You try to turn this around on us, we know where you live. We _all_ know where you live." The voice was low, gravelly, and totally emotionless. I didn't recognize it.

The orderly didn't respond, other than shooting him a look of pure hatred. Then, he turned his attention to the former captives, helping them into the car and departing as quickly as possible.

The clown, his business with Rivera concluded, turned to me. "You want to hop in the back?" he asked, voice slightly muffled by his mask.

I froze momentarily at the thought of being shut up again so soon, but managed not to let it show, giving him a smile instead. "I'd _much_ rather ride shotgun, if it's all the same to you. I've been cooped up for a while."

He shrugged, then pulled his mask off. I was right. I didn't recognize him. I'd remember this guy. Mainly because he was so… _old._ I mean, he wasn't exactly in need of a walker, but he was definitely older than our average henchman by about twenty years, was at least in his mid-fifties. His back was straight, though, and his blue eyes, though rather droopy, were clear—he looked like the sort of man who could handle himself, age notwithstanding. He didn't appear to notice me staring, shoving the mask in a back pocket and running his hand over his totally bald head. "You oughta tell that boyfriend of yours that these damn masks are a misery. Condensation starts gathering on the rubber, makes the whole thing feel like a rain forest. I'm George."

I took his offered hand gamely. "I'm Harley. And he's _your_ boss, why don't you tell him?"

"I know exactly who you are," he said languidly, "which is why I said _you_ should tell him. You're about ten times less likely to get _shot_ for it."

I laughed and then stopped short, surprised at how good it felt to laugh from sheer amusement rather than anger or maliciousness for a change. Fighting a smile, I said, "Fair point."

"Yeah." He jerked his head, indicating the front of the van. "Now, if it's all the same to you, we just enacted a jail break, and on top of kidnapping, that carries some pretty severe penalties if caught, so…"

"Personally, I'm just _dying_ to get thrown back into the asylum," I quipped, flashing him a grin. His response was the barest twitch of the lips, but given my strong sense that he was not a smiling sort of person, I marked the miniscule reaction as a compliment.

 _Got to watch it with this one_ , I thought as he turned away, indicating with a gesture that the other clowns should jump in the back. _I could like him._

I shook my head as I climbed into the passenger seat. The night that landed me in Arkham had taught me a few things, not the least of which was that getting attached to henchmen was heartbreak waiting to happen. Almost none of them lasted long, a fact underscored by the fact that I was being collected by three complete strangers—at least, I assumed that if either of the two men who hadn't taken their clown masks off knew me, they would have said so.

I'd been gone for three months, and I was just now really realizing that I would probably be going back to a hideout full of strangers. The thought bothered me a little, but I worked hard to tamp it down—Javier had been my favorite, and I was determined that he would be the first and last. Henchmen were worker bees; I needed to remember that. Anyway, given George's apparent age, I wasn't holding out hope that there'd even be enough _time_ to get attached to him. Even young men didn't last long in this game.

 _Besides,_ I told myself as George climbed into the seat beside me and started the engine, _all you need is the Joker, and_ _he_ _will certainly be there._ The reminder had me smiling again, refocused me, and I turned slightly, determining to avoid conversation and instead get myself into a healthier, more natural headspace in preparation for my return home. Not that _Harleen Quinzel, Unwilling Prisoner_ didn't have its perks, but really, being so sullen, angry, and joyless all the time exhausted me. The entire time I'd been imprisoned, I'd been a defensive little ball of a person, and it served to protect me well enough, but it wasn't _me._ Not all of me, anyway. It was time to bring back the parts of me I'd tucked safely away.

Fortunately, George didn't seem any keener to talk than I was, so I was able to just lean slightly against the window and watch the city fly by. It wasn't long before I felt myself smiling uncontrollably. Staring out the window from a static point behind bars just couldn't compare. I'd missed being _in_ the city, passing through dark industrial complexes, skirting shabby little neighborhoods and always being aware of the skyline beyond the immediacy of the brick and mortar.

Two years ago, I'd have looked pointedly at the cracked asphalt and creaky monorail stations before laughing at myself. In truth, I hadn't developed this love affair with the city until I met the Joker. He was the one who showed me the beauty and secrecy of shadowed alleyways, the million ways to escape from those who would see us caught—the infinite means by which we could turn the amalgam of asphalt, concrete, metal, and glass into the perfect playground. Before I met him, I could only make my way around the Narrows and parts of Midtown with any confidence.

Now, I could find my way in any part of the city.

It was this familiarity that made me so sure we were going to a hideout that would be completely unfamiliar to me. Before my time in Arkham, we'd been staked out in an old, long-defunct power plant near Chinatown. It wasn't a surprise that he'd switched places while I was inside; that plant had been condemned and was just a brief resting place at best.

At any rate, it was in southwest Gotham, and George was driving distinctly towards the East River. In no time it all, we'd crossed the river via Calvary Bridge and found ourselves in one of many industrial zones—and from the looks of it, it was designed like most of the others, with cracked brick apartment buildings scattered around, a halfhearted neighborhood of tiny houses popping up here and there to provide housing for factory workers and families. It wasn't hard to figure out roughly where we were headed.

Sure enough, George parked the van in a flat, sad-looking little lot that held several other vehicles and looked rather like an abandoned construction site that had been converted into parking space. Without being asked, he directed my attention across the street, to a rundown two-story brick building planted alone on the corner.

"Started squatting here about a week ago," he said in his gravelly, unhurried way. "Far as I can tell, this place housed workers for that factory—" there, he pointed to a large, flat building further down the street—"but sometime around New Year's the place closed down, moved to Robinson County. Workers followed. There's been a _for lease_ sign up for months, but Boss tore it down when we moved in, and judging by the state of the place, I don't think the landlord stops by too often."

"Well, if he does pay us a surprise visit, I'm sure J would have no problem taking care of it," I murmured, peering at the building. I was no stranger to big buildings—the abandoned or neglected places tended to be the ones that were too hard for landlords to take care of without shelling out a lot of money or time—but this one was distinctly more… homey than our usual hideouts. It looked almost like a boarding house instead of an apartment building. I felt a flutter of excitement starting in my belly

_He might be in there right now._

"Well, a lot of the factories around here are still functional," George said as he pushed his door open, and I followed suit, gladly stepping out into the open air again. "Place is pretty busy in the daytime, so the more recognizable among us usually save comings and goings for dark."

"Don't lounge around outside when the sun's out, got it."

"Dead at night, though. Even the people who live nearby don't step outside." He sniffed, scanning the street dispassionately. "Wonder why."

"Industrial spaces creep most people out, I think," I said, and as the other two clowns joined us, I took a slow breath. _Time to get back into the swing of things._

To my relief, George took the lead—I didn't want to be the first person to walk into a houseful of heavily-armed men not used to the sight of me. I didn't exactly want to be the last, either, so I kept fairly close to George's heels as he led the way across the street and up the rickety porch steps to the door, which he struck once, forcefully.

A shutter flickered. After another second, I heard multiple locks being undone, and then the door swung open.

George entered silently. I followed, and as the stranger who'd opened the door to admit us stepped aside without a word, I saw recognition flicker in his eyes. I glanced away. I'd meet all the new guys in time—right now, there were more important things to do. Get a sense of the layout of the house, for instance. Find the Joker.

George led the way into a large central room that had been decked out with battered, mismatched furniture and smelled strongly of cigarette smoke—a recreational space for the guys, judging by the number of men clustered around the flimsy card table in the middle of the room. I paused briefly to see if I recognized any of them—I didn't—before stepping quietly out of the room to get a good look at the rest of the house.

I moved from room to room, noting that if the place had once been a house with normal furniture and typical homey rooms, it was far closer to a barracks now. A lot of rooms were just empty. One room had nothing in it but sleeping bags strewn all over the floor. One room had folding tables set up and lining the walls, their surfaces entirely covered with guns, boxes of ammunition stacked beneath them. Yet another room had drums of gasoline shoved in a corner, C4 explosives neatly stacked on a metal shelf unit, and varying chemicals separated according to type on yet another plastic table. "And they _smoke_ in this house," I growled to myself between gritted teeth before closing the door, promising myself that I'd have a word with J about it later.

Near the back of the house was a barren room that yielded nothing but a staircase with at least one broken stair and three doors lining its walls—one out, one in, and one that opened to a downwards staircase leading to a darkened basement (I closed that door immediately without investigating further). I refrained from going upstairs, either, wanting to finish my exploration of the first floor before moving up.

The kitchen marked the completion of my circle—there was nothing to close it off; it opened up wide to connect to the main room again, easy access. In that kitchen area, I found an unpleasant surprise.

The petty, vicious little shitstain that met me there was called Ace, and out of all the henchmen we'd gone through, he was easily my least favorite. A juiced-up, strung-out white guy with ugly tattoos, he'd joined us at some point in January and had immediately made it clear that in his opinion, I was the Yoko Ono of the group and would inevitably bring the Joker's entire organization (if you could call it that) down. A couple of hard knocks, most from me but a notable few from a Joker annoyed by his passive-aggressive muttering, taught him to keep his mouth shut most of the time.

I could tell by the smirk he gave me as I entered the kitchen that those lessons had been all but forgotten, and I didn't even try to hide my groan at the sight of him. "Ugh. You're still alive? I was sure you'd die while I was away."

"Yeah, well, I was sure the Joker would wise up once you left and would leave you in the nuthouse. I guess you can't always get what you want."

I showed him my crossed fingers, then let my middle finger loose and flipped him off before turning around and leaving, his derisive laughter filling the kitchen behind me.

I doubled back to the staircase and went up to the second floor, skipping over the broken steps. It led to a long hallway, and after checking the first room and seeing nothing but more sleeping bags on the floor, I had a better idea of where I was going. The Joker always preferred to choose a room somewhat set apart from the henchmen. I went to the door at the very end of the hall and nudged it open.

No Joker. Although the excitement in my stomach flattened out into disappointment, I'd really been expecting it. If he hadn't had something to do, he'd have picked me up himself. If George was right and comings and goings were limited to night time, he'd have probably left as soon as the sun set.

However, this _was_ his room, as was apparent from the clothing strewn about, the mattress on the ground, and the paper-covered desk shoved into the corner, and I couldn't think of a better place to hole up and wait for him to get back.

I realized as I went to the mattress that it actually had _sheets_ covering it, and I felt myself smiling. _That's_ something that had definitely changed since I'd started working and living with him; it was nice to see he was keeping the standards up even though I hadn't been around during the move. Heartened, I went over, nearly dropped backwards onto the mattress, and then thought better of it. Instead, I dropped to my knees and started searching under the pillows and wadded-up blanket.

I found a screwdriver, two folding knives that were definitely _unfolded_ , and a pair of pinking shears. With a sigh that was born more of affection than annoyance, I removed them to the desktop. _Then_ I dropped backwards onto the mattress.

The sheets smelled faintly of a mixture of fire smoke and sharp, caustic chemicals. A year ago I might have turned my nose up, but now I associated the smells with him, and I flipped over, curling my arms around the nearest pillow, burying my face into it, and _breathing._

Scent is the sense that ties most directly into memory. I didn't realize it until that moment, but it was only then that I _truly_ believed I was back home.

I lay there for a while, letting the sense of security wash over me, letting the smell of him fill me up. I felt warm, and happy, and if it had been up to me, I would have fallen asleep right then and there—it wasn't as if I'd been sleeping very well of late, after all. However, as tired as I felt, it would have to wait. My mind was racing with ideas, to-do lists, and excitement that I was _going to get to see him again_. There was no way I could sleep.

First off. It had been hard to tell in the prison jumpsuit, but now that I was in civilian clothes again, I was becoming aware of an uncomfortable truth—my frequent lack of appetite for prison food had taken a toll, and I guessed that I weighed about ten pounds less upon my escape from Arkham than I had when I'd been committed. Sure, I was aware that plenty of people would look scornfully at me, " _Oh, boo-hoo, you're ten pounds skinnier, cry me a river_ ," but those people wouldn't think of it as such a gift if they ever had to work with the Joker's crew. The stress of the job was bad enough, but if you were in less than peak physical condition, you could say goodbye to safe escapes. I was missing muscle _and_ fat, and I needed both—the former for stamina, the latter for energy. I was going to have to both gain weight and get in shape again, and quickly.

 _Gaining weight shouldn't be a problem around here, what with the fact that our henchmen_ _ **live**_ _off of pizza and hamburgers._ Honestly, it was little wonder we lost as many henchmen as we did, what with their dietary habits. No, the challenge would come with putting muscle back on. I'd need to start a rigid workout routine more or less immediately.

Next, I rather reluctantly left the bed and went nosing around the room, looking for any of my stuff. I didn't find anything, which wasn't fun, but also wasn't altogether surprising—again, the man was scatterbrained. If he _didn't_ remember to bring it along, if it _wasn't_ stashed absentmindedly in a closet somewhere (the most likely option, I thought), then it would probably be back at the old hideout. Shouldn't be too hard to nip in and collect it; I'd have to ask him about it once he got back.

My search of the room did yield a mirror, though, and that mirror, in turn, yielded an unpleasant truth: I just looked much more like _Harleen_ than like _Harley Quinn_. My dark roots had grown in, a full inch and a half, and without makeup or clothes that actually fit, I looked… little. Harmless.

I shook my head in annoyance at my reflection and scrambled around until I found a black beanie, the kind we all wore now and again on jobs, and I jammed it on my head to obscure the my roots until I could do something about them.

That was when I heard the footsteps coming down the hall.

He had a way of walking that I'd spent enough time around him to instantly recognize—very possibly _intentionally_ terrifying, but not in a way that you'd suspect drew undue effort from his part. It was just the unhurriedness of it, sometimes even accompanied by the scraping of his shoes against floorboards if he was feeling particularly languid. Everyone else around him walked with a certain clip to their step, afraid of being caught off their game, whether they were on his side or not. Not him. He always took his time.

I bounded to the center of the room, feeling almost guilty for reasons I couldn't pinpoint—maybe I shouldn't have waited in his room, maybe I should have greeted him at the door when he first arrived back, maybe I shouldn't have been looking around in his stuff, it had been months, after all, what if he was still mad?

I shoved the worries into the back of my mind as hard as I could. _Of course you're allowed to be in here, you shared his bed for months, and if he was still angry then he never would have had expended the effort to have you broken out of Arkham, and he_ _ **definitely**_ _wouldn't have you brought back to the hideout if you weren't supposed to resume your old role._

All the same, I was aware that I was trembling. The prospect of seeing him again had me shaken up for more reasons than just those nagging doubts.

 _I think I'm going to explode._ So much time spent avoiding the very thought of him, both for his protection and my own emotional defense, meant that the sense of familiarity I'd built with him, with the _idea_ of him, was all but gone. My stomach was in knots and I felt the strange, impossible urge to just bolt.

Then, the door creaked open. He pushed it open slowly, probably made aware of _someone's_ presence by the shadows caused by my movement and wanting to clear the room before just wandering in—an appropriate instinct for him. All the same, it took mere seconds before the view out into the hallway was clear and I could _see_ him.

All of a sudden, it was hard to remember how to breathe.

He was dressed the way he dressed when he was anticipating being seen by anyone not part of the crew—heavy purple greatcoat over the immaculately-tailored three-piece purple-and-green suit. The usual makeup was on in full, though judging by the lack of streaks in it, judging by the fact that his green hair (brown at the roots—like me, he'd need to re-dye, though I'd wager on him putting it off for far longer than I would) was crisp and dry, he hadn't been doing anything that required too much exertion. He stood there in the hallway, tall, shoulders slightly hunched, taking up most of the doorframe due to the heavy coat, and he stared at me with sleepy eyes.

I found it difficult to stare back. I was out of practice holding his eyes, reading and withstanding the savagery lazily concealed in those contracted pupils. In a lot of ways, being around the Joker was like being around some huge, predatory animal—you had to know how to move around him, and even though on one level I knew that my fear was absurd, on another, I was scared that I had forgotten.

I wanted to run past him. I wanted to run _to_ him, cling to him and never let go again. I wanted to turn around, make a mad dash for the bed and hide under the covers like a child hiding from monsters until he finally _did_ something.

I did none of these things. I made myself be strong, hold eye contact, and wait for him to move.

Finally, he stepped into the room, moving towards me. He took another step, then another, and another, until he was standing directly in front of me and I could barely breathe—

—and then, he was sidestepping me, his shoulder barely brushing mine as he slipped his coat off. In the next second, the coat was in my arms, and he was heading for the desk, dropping into the chair with a long sigh.

I stared at the back of his head as he hunched over the desk, rustling through the papers that completely obscured the surface, and I was utterly bewildered. Whatever I'd been expecting, that wasn't it.

 _It's gotta be a joke,_ I thought. He always did have an entirely inappropriate sense of humor—typically funny to me, but when one was the butt of the joke, it changed things a little bit. Still, I wasn't set to ruin my long-anticipated return home by complaining, so I just set the coat down on the mattress and said, "Ha, ha, very funny. Hello to you, too."

"Mm," he grunted distractedly, and then: "Harley, put on a pot of coffee, wouldja? I'm _beat_."

I stood in the center of the room, staring at the back of his head, arms hanging loose, waiting for the other shoe to drop. _It's gotta be a bad joke, right? Not even_ _ **he's**_ _this cruel._

He mumbled a quick "A-ha" as he found a laptop buried somewhere beneath all the paper, and with one purposeful move, he opened the screen and fired it up. He did not look at me.

It finally sunk in that this was not just his bizarre way of getting a laugh out of the whole situation. It finally sunk in that either my entire absence had gone mostly unnoticed, or that he was determined to pretend it hadn't happened at all.

And either way, _it fucking hurt._

The feeling of not being able to breathe hadn't left, but now, it was borne of pain instead of anticipation or the vague fear that he might still be angry with me. Slowly, I lifted my arms and folded them tight across my middle, nodding slightly as my jaw tightened in suddenly-angry resolution.

_All right, fine. If that's the way he wants it. I don't exactly feel like hanging around in an explosion risk zone with a bunch of smelly henchdudes that I don't even know, anyway. I've got more important things to do._

"Fair enough, Mr. J," I muttered as I bent over and performed a quick search of the pockets in his coat. _Bingo._ I emerged quickly with a wad of bills, which I shoved into my back pocket. A quick glance in the Joker's direction revealed that he hadn't so much as turned his head. I straightened up and forced some lightness into my voice, unwilling to let on how much his dismissal had hurt and angered me. "I'll go see what they've got in the kitchen." Swiftly, not sure I'd be able to keep from stalking over and thwacking him in the back of the head before I took my leave, I twisted around and walked out the door, trying to pretend I didn't hear his insulting half-grunt of distracted acknowledgement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don’t kill me—it wasn’t my decision, I swear, it was Joker’s. He wouldn’t let me do anything else. That said, y’all say it with me: what a COMPLETE and TOTAL DICK.
> 
> I am SO sorry it’s been so long since the last update; I’ve been massively overstressed with work/family issues so I haven’t had the time to work on it until now. Forgive me, please! I’ll be making every effort to update at least once a week in the future.
> 
> I think everyone should know that George is modeled heavily after Mike from Breaking Bad. That was a decision I made to relieve my own (strong, numerous) feelings about Mike/therapy because after the show ended I started going through Mike withdrawals so I had to find some way to obliquely kind of bring him into a space where I could write about him. If you’ve seen the show, you’ll know what I’m talking about—if you haven’t seen the show, you should, because it is a modern marvel and Mike is my heart.
> 
> I thought I should clarify, since a few people commented on it—despite Harley’s accusations, J wasn’t scared of the baby, nor was he nervous or like… in any way intimidated by it. He reacted that way because I imagine his feelings towards babies these days can basically be summed up by “Ew.” Which… I have a vague feeling, based on absolutely nothing (except perhaps the fact that Heath Ledger himself had a child), that the Joker was a father at one point, so his repulsion might have something to do with the Joker tending to completely divorce _Joker_ from… whoever he was before. Don’t want to get too much into it because there’s going to be a discussion of his [lack of] backstory later (don’t worry, I’m not going to try to give him one, one of my absolute favorite things about Ledger’s Joker is the total lack of history or information about who he USED to be) so we’ll discuss it then. :)
> 
> Additional bonus feature of sorts (which is code for “narratively it won’t naturally come about for it to be addressed in the story/Harley’s so comfortable with her suspicions of Wilson that she won’t pursue them, so I’m telling you now”): the recordings of the Joker’s voice? That’s all J. He’s got an orderly and a guard in his pocket, time for the breakout isn’t quite right, so in the meantime he figures he might as well fuck with his girlfriend some/make her suspect her sanity/make her suspect her doctors/make sure he’s at the forefront of her mind, just ‘cause he can. I repeat: the guy’s a dick.
> 
> I’m going to be traveling and visiting a friend next week but hopefully I’ll be able to update regardless. In the meantime, thank you all for the encouragement and patience. You guys rock.


	8. your heart is locked, you left me outside

_Without a chance now_  
_There's no romance now_  
_I better leave before I break_  
_But your heart is locked_  
_You left me outside_

 **-The Dead Weather,** _**Outside ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cn0kPrNs-iw))** _

I was all but running by the time I hit the stairs, and I trotted down them at a speed that was probably unsafe for someone my height. Once I hit the ground, I veered directly left and crossed through the house again, ignoring the back exit. I wasn't lying. I fully intended to check the kitchen, but not for coffee.

The kitchen was empty, but that wasn't saying much, given that the room it connected to was fuller than ever of a group of loud, poker-playing, cigarette-smoking, gun-cleaning men. I ignored them because I was angry, because I wasn't sticking around, and because there was no better way to get a jump on my resolution to avoid getting close to the guys than to appear standoffish. Instead, I started yanking drawers out and hunting through cabinets.

It wasn't long before I felt a presence drifting close from the main room, and I glanced up briefly to see George. Reading his body language and deciding he meant no harm, I went right back to my search.

"D'you mind telling me what you're looking for?"

I found a switchblade stiletto in a drawer, pocketed it, and only then paused to take another look at him. He was leaning against the shitty old refrigerator, arms crossed, watching me but unthreatening. Pensively, I weighed my options. _He doesn't exactly strike me as the stir-the-pot type, so the most likely reaction is a simple "Good luck." He might even bother to help me out. However, if he_ _ **does**_ _try to stop me, the resulting commotion might actually draw the Joker's attention away from his damn laptop. It'd be a win-win for me, ultimately._

I slammed the drawer I'd just finished searching shut and looked him in the eye. "Trying to find keys for a car that works."

His eyebrows twitched, just barely, but again—microexpressions. "What, that fast?" he mumbled, but, sensing it was a rhetorical question, I didn't respond. He pushed away from the fridge and went to the opposite counter, one I hadn't gotten around to yet, and lazily pulled open a drawer. I heard the unmistakable sound of keys clinking against one another as he rummaged around, and then he withdrew a ring that held two.

He closed the door and turned around to face me. He met my eyes, making sure he had my attention, and then pointed to one of the keys. "House." He pointed to the other key. "Car." I glanced at keyring, then back at him, waiting warily. He palmed the ring and then tossed it to me. "You're looking for the rust-colored '99 Toyota Camry. No one should need it for a while, windows make it conspicuous for transporting more than one or two rough-lookin' guys at a time."

I caught the keys and slowly slipped them in my pocket next to the money I'd lifted from the Joker, still wary, still watching George. He turned as if to go, then thought twice and glanced back at me. "Try not to get caught, all right?" he requested, his tone weary, as if he was already anticipating having to work another breakout.

I couldn't help but flash him a smile, despite my determination to stay aloof, especially from him. "I think I can probably swing that," I said with a faux-arrogant jerk of my chin, and then walked past him, heading for the door.

Naturally, since my ideas never worked as planned, I was halfway through the main room when I ran into trouble.

"Hey, blondie, where do you think _you're_ going?"

Common sense said to just keep going, but I couldn't help pausing midstep, because I just _hated_ him so much it was hard for me to ignore his taunting like I should have. Still pointed towards the door, I looked over my shoulder at where Ace was sprawled out across the couch, looking insufferably smug, his booted feet up on a weapons chest that I supposed served for a coffee table. I fired over my shoulder: "Ace, seriously. Just stick your face in a blender or something. It'd be _such_ an improvement."

He vaulted off the couch and came at me, and I stood my ground, knowing that to turn tail now would leave all the new guys with the wrong idea. Doubtless, this was what this little showdown was about, and although I was more than ready to just get out of there, I couldn't afford to let the new guys think they could just mess with me and get away with it. It was bad enough that he'd been whispering in their ears for months now, bad enough that they were used to a boys' club and that with Ace's influence, it wouldn't be hard for them to think of me as nothing but an annoying millstone.

I waited patiently until he reached me, tilting my head back so I could look him in the eye and be sure that he saw the contempt on my face. He all but checked over his shoulder to make sure the others were looking before saying, "Cute. Real cute, Harley, but you didn't answer my question."

"Well, you know, I really don't _have_ to, so…" I said, turning to go.

Ace grabbed my elbow and I twisted back around immediately, glaring daggers, but he ignored the dangerous expression on my face, too busy asserting his imagined authority: "We _just_ brought you home. I don't imagine the boss wants you stepping out again so soon. I mean, you might get _caught_ again."

I stared directly into his face, eyes blazing and unblinking, and I said clearly, "You're obviously laboring under the same delusions you had when I left, so let me make this as clear as I possibly can: _you_. Have _no idea_ what the boss wants." As he scoffed, glancing around for emotional support, I went on: "And _you_ have absolutely no authority over _me_ , especially not any that would allow you to dictate my comings and goings. So, again, as clear as I can possibly make it: fuck _off,_ Ace."

I turned towards the door again, but I was obviously right about my time away bestowing the little cretin with misplaced confidence, and he grabbed me again, this time by the shoulder.

The muscle memory kicked in, and I found myself slipping back into my old ways purely by instinct. My arm came up to bat his hand away from my shoulder, and as I simultaneously lifted my knee, he jerked back, going to protect his crotch. I'd never really been one for groin hits unless I was in serious danger, though, not when the instep was so very painful and so very debilitating, so in a flash I brought my booted heel down on the top of his foot as hard as I could. His shrill, short cry as he recoiled was very, very satisfying.

I knew the respite wouldn't last long, not with his need to be taken seriously, regarded as someone powerful. He would push past the pain, and so I pulled the stiletto I'd found in the kitchen out of my pocket and flicked out the blade. By the time he recovered enough to turn back to me, I was standing with knees slightly bent, knife held ready at my waist, other hand held at my chest, ready to block his fist should he take a swing, which would have the convenient effect of exposing his vital organs to my knife hand.

Ace may have been a misogynistic, power-thirsty prick, but there was a reason he'd survived more than six months working for us—he had a pretty good instinct for when a situation had just gotten life-threatening. Whether he was capable of listening to that instinct, though, was another thing, especially when the threat was coming from one of the people he hated most in the world. He met my eyes and I could see him weighing his options, stacking his superior height and build against my speed and training (especially with a knife—I'd been the Joker's loyal pupil every day he had time for me for many months). I could see him trying to decide if engaging me further would be worth risking some severe knife wounds at the very least, read the subtle changes in his face as he realized that if he did serious harm to me, he may well have to contend with the boss.

"Stop making an ass out of yourself, kid."

Surprisingly enough, the condescending line didn't come from me. Our standoff momentarily forgotten, Ace and I glanced into the living room—where George had settled down on the recently-vacated couch, not even looking at us, his attention turned to a water-spotted magazine he'd picked up somewhere.

Apparently, the threat to his masculinity was greater when he was being called out by another guy, and he barely glanced at me as he turned away to snarl at George: "What the fuck do you mean?"

"You heard me," George said, sounding perfectly disinterested, but I didn't stick around to see how things would pan out—I'd delayed too long already. Without further notice, I slipped out the front door, closing it softly behind me.

I found the Toyota Camry George had indicated in the little lot across the street, fortunately unblocked by the vans also parked there. The engine struggled a little to turn over, but once it did, I was pleased to find that the car didn't make any attention-grabbing noises that sometimes came with old vehicles—no screeching power steering or whiny brakes. I pulled out onto the road with a very clear game plan.

First, I crossed the bridge back into Gotham proper.

As soon as I was back in Downtown Gotham, I stopped at a 24-hour drugstore. I paused before leaving the car, tucking my hair up into the beanie I still wore, but it was just an extra precaution—I wasn't particularly concerned about being recognized. Even if my escape had made the news by now (I was willing to bet it hadn't; it had only been two hours and David would want to spend every last minute searching the grounds to ensure that I was actually gone before reluctantly calling in the police, who would then spread word to the press), this chain didn't let their employees watch any TV but the security camera. Besides, unless the Joker (i.e. immediate and terrifying physical danger) was present, people usually waited until the criminal left before calling the cops. Less hassle that way.

I fed the meters with some quarters I found in the center console, then skipped inside. There, I hunted down black eyeliner, red lipstick, razors, body wash, and hair dye. The hair aisle gave me just a moment's pause—I quickly found my usual golden-blonde color, but just next to it was an assortment of much more vivid, unnatural colors—blues, greens, pinks… and peroxide blonde.

I'd never gone platinum before, and I'd need to re-bleach my roots anyway. I studied the dye, working my lip, for less than a minute before throwing it in my basket. If it sucked, I could dye it a darker blonde again with no one the wiser.

I threw a pair of black-framed, one-dollar reading glasses on top of the pile, because "hipster wearing useless glasses" was always my favorite incognito look, and then I checked out.

I looked plainer than ever with my hair hidden, no makeup, and baggy clothes, and, as predicted, the cashier didn't give me a second glance. I paid with my stolen cash, not without a tinge of satisfaction at the thought that the Joker was financing my girls' night, and left.

Purchases safely in the passenger seat, I drove to Upper Chelsea Hill, to a neighborhood of identical brownstones close to Robinson Park. At this time of night, street parking was a possibility, and I landed a spot just beyond the end curb. I collected my shopping bag and all but skipped up to the brownstone at 06 Venus Street—the home of Pamela Isley, my best friend.

No one responded my knocks. I gave it a minute, then shrugged, unconcerned. She never wanted me to be stranded in case I needed a place to stay, and so we had a rather unique system in place. I turned to the potted plant on the doorstep, a single, sturdy stalk that bore a large, closed bud, and waved my hand gently in front of it. In a matter of moments, the bud opened, exposing the key housed inside.

Pam had once tried to explain the scientific process behind this plant—her own breed—to me. Something about hybridizing distant relatives of orchids and venus flytraps and making them responsive to specific pheromones (mine and Pam's, to be precise), but botany had always been above my head, much to Pam's frustration. All I cared about was that first, the plant was the most creative hide-a-key spot I'd ever seen and my friend was a genius, and second, I had a way into her house without having to pick the lock.

I removed the key gently from the bud, which closed up right away once I withdrew, and let myself in.

Once over the threshold, I took a second to breathe in my best friend's smell—her house always smelled like the woods, in no small part because of the amount of houseplants she kept. Despite my own ineptitude around anything that could qualify as "nature," the smell was comforting, because it meant that I would soon be safe with my best friend.

"Pam?" I called out, aware that the place was pitch black. Not that odd—it was after midnight, but then, ever since her "murder," she'd been keeping almost the same hours as I did. I'd be surprised if she was already in bed. "Red?" I called again, but when I got no response, I shrugged and flipped on the lights. I was sure she'd be back in time. In the meantime, I had things to do.

Due to the combination of vanity and curiosity, my hair fell at the top of the list. I let myself into Pam's cramped little bathroom and got to work.

An hour and a half later, hair platinum blonde through and through, I rinsed out the bleach at the sink. I was rubbing in the deep conditioner that came with the kit when I caught a flicker of motion in the mirror, and I straightened up fast to see—

—Pam, peering around the corner of the door, a little derringer held carefully at chest level. I saw recognition flicker in her eyes, and knowing that she could hardly be called trigger happy, I grinned at her through the mirror. "Better call the cops, Red. There's a fugitive in your house."

She reached for the door and pushed it open, and I stepped out of its way so that she could take a step into the bathroom with me. I kept combing the deep conditioner through my hair, but stared unashamedly at her through the mirror, drinking in the first sight of my best friend in three months.

With her thick, long red hair, green eyes, impeccable, classical bone structure, and strong chin, it wasn't hard to find her terrifying, but I was used to terrifying these days. Looking at her, I mostly saw _beautiful._ Unfortunately for the population of humanity—men in particular, but most women as well—she despised them and their cavalier dismissal of her beloved cause: the preservation of the earth. Fortunately, that dislike didn't extend to me, and selfishly, I was glad. Pam was a good friend, a better friend than I deserved.

Now, she lowered her gun, assessed the scene, and then met my eyes and spoke for the first time. "Harley, tell me you have not been washing harsh and toxic chemicals down my drain."

I froze, deer in headlights. "Ummm," I said, turning to look at the damning evidence—the bleach kit, spread all over the counter, definitely used. There was no way I was going to be able to lie my way out of this one. "Um, well, _hypothetically_ …"

She narrowed her eyes, giving me a flash of that terror I mentioned. "And that is a horrible, _inconsiderate_ idea… why?"

 _Come on, Harley, you've got this one._ I hunted through my memories quickly, trying to remember the times I'd actually paid attention to Pam's ranting (and to be fair to me, she did it ninety percent of the time—I didn't blame her, we both had our obsessions, there was no use pretending we didn't occasionally tune each other out). It took me a second, but then I snapped my fingers, recalling: "Cause you're on a greywater system!" I said, a little too triumphantly.

She narrowed her eyes further, and I flinched. "Oops."

She stood there in imposing silence for a moment as I held perfectly still, eyes down, waiting for her to pronounce judgment. Finally, after about seven seconds, she relented. "Fortunately for you, the current system is pumping water into the toilets instead of the reservoir I use to water the plants," she told me loftily, and when I flashed a grin, she pointed threateningly at me: "Never. _Again_."

"You got it, Red!" I chirped.

Relaxing a bit, she peered more closely at me. "What is that… platinum?"

"Oh. Yeah," I said, turning back to the mirror. "Yeah, that's why I'm not hugging you right now, my hair is all soaked and bleached. Speaking of which. Can I use your shower?"

She eyed me critically through the mirror. "I suppose it's too much to ask to request that you keep it to three minutes?"

I flinched and turned towards her, switching on my best pleading face. "Red, I've been on timed showers for _three months._ Give me just this _one_ time and I _swear_ I'll keep to your three-minute limit from now on."

She heaved a long-suffering sigh, but for once, didn't argue. "Fine. I guess you deserve some sort of indulgence after the unfortunate last few months. I don't suppose you're hungry?"

At the reminder, my stomach rumbled. "Pam. Prison food is _the worst._ You would die."

"I'll take that as a yes. I'm making ginger stir fry. I'll make an extra portion for you." She double-took. "Make that _two_."

Seeing her obvious disapproval of my weight loss, I decided to press my luck. "Too much to ask if I asked for chicken with mine?" Her face told me all I needed to know, and I did my best not to sulk. Being best friends with a vegetarian had its drawbacks. "Fine," I sighed, and she stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Thirty minutes later, I emerged, feeling actually _human_. My hair looked and smelled unreasonably good for having just been bleached, the deep conditioner and a quick go-over with the hair dryer sending it well on its way to its usual bright appearance. I'd shaved my legs and underarms for the first time in months (even safety razors were deemed too much of a risk to hand over to the criminally insane, at least the women), and my skin smelled like a heady combination of lavender and vanilla courtesy of the body wash I'd chosen. Add your basic black eyeliner and some red lipstick, and I felt pretty again, reveling in the sensations that had been deemed "unnecessary and distracting luxuries" by the Arkham staff.

Not much could compete with the way I currently felt, but the smell coming from the living room was a threat, at least.

I followed my nose to find Pam sitting with her knees pulled up on one side of the couch, a bowl cupped in one hand, a fork held in the other—Pam never used chopsticks; she found them wasteful. As I paused inside the doorway, her eyes fell on me and then crinkled with the hint of a smile. "Look at you. Back from the dead and lookin' good." She pointed with her fork to another bowl on the coffee table, complemented by a glass of white wine. "Just finished. It's piping hot."

"I love you," I said frankly, dropping on the opposite side of the couch and gathering up the bowl. I could not cook. It was something I'd finally accepted after twenty-five-plus years of kitchen disasters. Pam, on the other hand, was essentially a master chef. Two minutes in your kitchen and she would have an idea for something not only delicious, but vegetarian as well. Not that I _preferred_ the vegetarian bit; it just impressed me that she had such an exhaustive range of go-to recipes that fit her dietary preferences.

The dish in question consisted of ginger-marinated vegetables (onions, carrots, snow peas, baby corn, bell peppers) on top of a generous portion of rice mixed with tangy seafood sauce. I nearly whimpered at the sight of it. After all that beige, mushy prison food, this looked like an actual paradise. For a good five minutes, I was totally silent, eating my first incredible meal since the escape.

In the end, Pam broke the silence, swiping daintily at her mouth with a cloth napkin before setting down her half-finished portion, picking up her wine glass, and looking at me. My mouth still full, I just widened my eyes questioningly at her, and she said simply, "So I assume he threw you out."

 _Well. That stings._ My food felt like it had turned to dust in my mouth, but I still managed to swallow before setting aside my mostly-eaten bowl. I took a second, ostensibly checking to see if I had anything caught in my teeth but really just gearing myself up for the conversation, and then asked casually, reaching for my wine glass, "Why would you assume that?"

She rolled one shoulder casually forward, lifting her legs from the couch and setting her feet gracefully on the ground. "As much as I'd like to think your recent experience in Arkham brought you to your senses regarding the true nature of that… deranged _boyfriend_ of yours, I know better than to hope. Unless you're telling me you _didn't_ go there first?"

"I did, and I don't appreciate you calling him deranged," I said, shooting her a quick scowl.

She sighed, tilting her head back to glance at the ceiling as if for help before saying bluntly, "Harley, you know I'm not going to sugarcoat things, especially not with you. We're close enough that I won't disrespect you by telling you polite lies. I think your boyfriend is a psychotic murdering bastard, and in all probability, he probably thinks I'm a meddling bitch. I'm sorry if you feel caught between us, but you know better than to think our feelings about each other will be warm for your sake."

"Feelin' the love, Red," I said dryly.

Her first glass was finished. She reached for the bottle to refill it, and I tossed back what was left of mine and held my glass out to her in silent request. "I _do_ love you," she said as she refilled my glass before hers. "That's why I say it. You have to know that there's someone who genuinely loves you—not just those quacks at Arkham—who thinks you'd be much better off without him. I mean, how exactly did it go down tonight? You break out of Arkham, see him for the first time in three months, and he throws you _out_?"

"Again, that's an assumption, and when you assume—"

"—you make an ass out of you and me," she recited wearily with me, and I beamed at her.

"See, there you go. No, as it happens, _he_ organized my breakout. No bloodshed or anything; I was out of there in fifteen minutes."

"How gallant of him."

"Quit being _judgey,_ " I scolded her. She showed her palms in surrender, and I went on. "Anyway, I got back to the new hideout, and… well, it's not like he was an asshole or anything. He just didn't really acknowledge me." Pam raised an eyebrow, a sort of nonverbal _and that's not being an asshole?_ I glared at her, but finished: "So I decided that if my presence wasn't immediately _required,_ then I might as well go out and see what you were up to. Hideout's full of strange men, not exactly the best environment for the whole hair and makeup thing."

Her cheek twitched, and I could see her decision to lay off the Joker for now coming a second before she made it. "Even if you get scolded for washing your hair bleach down the sink?" she asked, offering a small smile from behind her glass.

"Trust me, I've been yelled at for weirder things," I said, stretching out a hand. She laced her long, thin fingers through my much smaller ones, and we smiled at each other for a few seconds before I took a sip of wine and abruptly switched subjects. "So. _Lily._ What have you been up to?"

The question was a loaded one. Nearly a year ago, on a business trip to Egypt, Pam's superior, Jason Woodrue, had attempted to poison her. To make a long story short, Pam had saved herself with an injection of the prototype anti-toxin that she'd been developing, Woodrue fled, Pam dumped a pint of her own blood onto the hotel room floor, and after laying low in a hostel for a little while, she managed to persuade a businessman with a private plane to take her along to Gotham, which was on his flight plan. She was never too clear on the details, and I never pressed her, reading clear signs of trauma from her in her early days back.

Over time, though, she'd recovered somewhat, and with her recovery came purpose. Essentially, given that Woodrue had disappeared and revealing that she was alive would cause more trouble than it was worth, Pam decided to buy a fake identity (not cheap, but over the winter she and I pulled several little stunts that resulted in a tidy nest egg for her to work with). She settled on the name Lily Frost.

 _Lily_ was sick and tired of watching her world get treated like a trash can, and once she was re-established as a brand new person, she went to work. I was more than pleased to see that she was ready to get her hands dirty, but I worried. While I leaned more towards flashy chaos, Red's vendettas were much more personal. She focused on CEOs of decidedly eco-unfriendly companies and developers that were willing to tear up parks and protected spaces in order to plant new neighborhoods and business, and her intent was deadly: she intended to poison each and every ungrateful soul until her message was received. Her targets were much higher-profile, but as of yet, I hadn't had reason to worry about her getting caught: she'd only killed one person by the time I went into Arkham, an incident which prompted her to fall back—the toxin wasn't good enough, she said; it needed more work before she could risk it again.

(I'd assisted her in that first effort, and at some point during my frequent visits during her initial efforts to develop the perfect toxin, I'd brought Dr. Jonathan Crane along purely by accident. It… hadn't exactly gone well. While I could see a certain grudging respect from each one for the other's intellect, as far as their personalities went… well, for someone who held such contempt for the term _frenemy,_ Crane was certainly adept at making them.)

When I'd gotten thrown in the asylum, Pam had still been conducting research, reviewing targets, perfecting her poison. Now, she turned her gaze to the side thoughtfully, considering how to answer my question with two glasses of wine in her.

"A lot, really. There are a lot of things I want to do, Harley, and I've taken so long since getting back already, but… I don't want to start, _really_ start, until I actually _know_ what I'm doing and how I want to go about it."

I raised my eyebrows. "What, Pennington wasn't a start?"

She waved her glass dismissively. "Pennington was a practice run. And it didn't go well; the police knew that he was poisoned and that the poison was monkshood-based."

"They didn't trace it back to you; I call that a success."

"Yeah, I have a few advantages on my side at the _moment_ , but I have to be more sophisticated. I don't want to go to prison."

"No, you don't," I agreed, shuddering into my wine glass.

Pam refilled hers and continued. "I know there are toxins out there that don't kill as immediately as most others and that don't show up on the average autopsy. I need to find something that causes a death that looks natural enough for an overstressed old man that no one looks twice. I'm working on it, I feel I'm growing close, but…" She trailed off and clicked her tongue.

"I have total confidence in you," I told her.

The smile she gave me was almost shy—a smile that I was pretty sure only _I_ ever received from Pam these days. Especially since the incident with Woodrue, she was so committed to presenting herself as a scary, confident ice queen that she rarely took time off from that persona. When she did, it always felt like a reward, and I returned the smile with a glowing one of my own.

"At any rate," I said, straightening up and reaching for the wine bottle again, "I definitely encourage being careful. I at least have a sort of mentor in my field, but as far as I know, you don't know any high-profile assassins ready to take you under their wings and teach you their ways." I frowned as I realized that the bottle was close to empty, and Pam picked up on the source of my discontent immediately.

"There's another bottle or two in the kitchen. Go get us one; it's been a long week for me, you deserve some kind of celebration, and we're just getting started."

I laughed and slipped from the couch, picking up the mostly-empty bottle. I realized once I got to my feet that the two full glasses I'd already consumed had gone to my head quicker than I anticipated, and I giggled as I tilted into the wall on the way to the kitchen. I felt a little spinny, but mostly, I just felt light and happy.

"So, I heard Doctor Cranky escaped about a week before you did," Pam called after me. "Did you see him at all beforehand?"

Doctor Cranky was her not-so-affectionate name for Jonathan. "As a matter of fact, I did," I replied. "He and I hung out a lot in the month or so before he broke out. Turns out he was manipulating me into sending him to the infirmary so he could make his escape."

"Typical. I'm just surprised it took so long."

"Oh, what _ever,_ Red," I said, locating the new bottle and a corkscrew on the countertop nearby.

" _What_?" Her voice was louder; I imagined she was twisting around so that she could shout over the top of the couch towards the kitchen.

"Don't tell me you're not just pining away, waiting for the next time you see him."

"You _cannot_ be serious," she said, voice half-choked with laughter.

I wasn't, really—it was mostly absent-minded wishful thinking on my part. I'd seen them quibbling, quarreling, and putting each other down with equal skill, and I didn't genuinely think there was some secret romance brewing, but at the same time, knowing how aloof and superior they both could be, I could see it as a potential good thing, them each being with someone who could actually keep up with their respective meanness and intelligence. Still, given Pam's contempt for people as a whole and Crane's stiff, standoffish behavior, I doubted that it was a realistic expectation.

Didn't stop me from giving her a hard time about it, though.

"Don't tell me you haven't even _thought_ about it. He's a dick, yeah, but the man's pretty, in a creepy way. Plus. His eyes are unreal." Encouraged by the sound of her laughter spilling out from the living room, I went on: "You two could never have babies, though. You both already have the kind of bone structure that could put a man's eye out; to combine your powers and give them to an innocent infant like that would be totally irresponsible."

Her laughter stopped abruptly. I felt my forehead crease. "Too far? I was just teasing, Red—"

"Harley," she said, her voice sounding oddly thick, "can you come here, please?"

Confused and frowning, I took up my newly-filled glass and quickly padded out to the living room again. Pam was sitting rigidly upright, pressed hard against the back of the couch.

I followed her gaze across the room and promptly dropped my glass to the floor, where it shattered.

"Well, well… _well._ Isn't _this_ , ah, _cozy._ "

 _Well,_ _**shit** _ _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henchmen and Pamela and cliffhangers, oh my!
> 
> First off- you guys have been tremendously patient with the erratic schedule, I just wanted to say that I appreciated that. My travels have been completed safely, I'm back at home, normalcy... should resume as usual, and with it should come a bit more stability/regularity with updates. At least until my brother's wedding in a couple of weeks (that's a joke. mostly. why is my entire family doing significant stuff this year?).
> 
> Secondly, this marks a point where I can promise you the Joker will be much more involved than he has up till this point. I know it's been a long way and I really appreciate you all being invested in a story that's been practically Jokerless so far, but the big bad's back on scene now, and the story's about to start moving. About time. ;)
> 
> Also, Pam and Jon is my crackship. Can't help it. Not necessarily going to come to fruition, but can you imagine how much they'd HATE each other and how they'd both kinda be into that? Kind of? Just me? FINE.
> 
> All right, I'm worn out from an entirely sleepless night and a subsequent day spent on airplanes, so I'm going to retire now. Happy birthday to the guest reviewer, hope I made it in time! Thanks to all of you for reading and reviewing, it's always a huge boost. :) Until next time!


	9. you'll need me, and we can be obsessed

_I'm here trying not to bite your neck,_  
_but it's beautiful, and I'm gonna get_  
_So drunk on you, and kill your friends._  
_You'll need me, and we can be obsessed._  
_And I can touch your hair, and taste your skin,_  
_The ghosts won't matter 'cause we'll hide in sin._

**Kyla La Grange, Vampire Smile ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNNEKKacUZQ))  
**

Wine trickled over my toes, and I could feel the glass shards where they'd come to rest nestled dangerously next to my bare feet, but I didn't dare to move. Just like Pam's, my gaze was locked on the spectral figure across the room, the last person I expected to see here, at what I considered to be a safe house, beneath his notice.

The Joker seemed oblivious to the standstill his arrival had caused—though I knew better, knew he had designed his silent entry to achieve just such a reaction, and for an instant, I hated him for it. He was scary enough approaching in full view, in broad daylight, let alone slinking suddenly out of the shadows in one's home, where you were supposed to be _safe_. I knew him well enough to curse myself for not expecting it, but Pam didn't deserve this.

His greatcoat was back on, discouraging my hopes that this was just a _girl's-night-has-gone-on-too-long-so-don't-mind-me-just-fetching-her-back-home_ errand. Reading the signal his attire sent out, I guessed that once he'd found me gone, he immediately figured out where I must be and decided that an introduction was long overdue.

I could have gone the rest of my life without introducing my boyfriend to my best friend. They hadn't even _spoken_ yet and I felt like I was about to jump out of my skin—almost wished I _could_ to avoid the inevitable clash.

Still playing dumb to the tension, he prowled around the edge of the room, pausing at a glass hanging planter and extending a gloved fingertip to poke at the vines spilling from it down to the floor. I glanced over at Pam to see that she was tensing up, a muscle tightening in her jaw as she fought from yelling at him to back the fuck off. She was managing thus far, her common sense providing a cool hand of restraint, but I knew her temper. If he kept touching her plants, she wouldn't be able to keep from saying something, common sense be damned, and once she opened her mouth, she wouldn't be able to stop.

Clearly, the Joker wasn't going to lead, and it would definitely be better if Pam didn't talk. _I guess as the common denominator, the responsibility falls on me. Damn it all._

I pulled in a deep breath, trying to imagine that the oxygen filling my lungs was actually courage, and, still holding perfectly still, I spoke: "J. What are you doing here?"

He moved past the planter and glanced at me mid-stride, eyebrows lifting an inch as if he was actually surprised at the question, but I knew better. Keeping to the edges of the room, pausing at a lampstand arranged against the wall, he cleared his throat and said, "I, uh… well, I got _worried._ "

"Worried," I repeated flatly, hoping that maybe he'd hear how ridiculous it sounded if it came from another's mouth. Maybe if we were alone, I might have allowed myself to be flattered by the lie, but adding Pam to the equation changed everything.

He glanced over at me again, and for a split second, I saw the skin around his eyes bunch up in genuine amusement, _ha ha ha, now_ ** _this_** _is fun_. Then, the poker face was back, and he swiveled to rest his back lazily against the wall, black eyes flicking from me to Pam then back again. "Well, _yeah_ ," he said, putting on that fake-concerned tone again. "I mean, _what,_ I go through all this trouble to getchya out of _Arkham_ , and you just, uh… _vanish_ , first thing?"

"You didn't exactly seem invested in my comings and goings _earlier_ tonight," I said, hearing myself get defensive, hating the speed at which I gave him a reaction but unable to control it.

He folded his arms and hunched back into the wall, ignoring me, his caricaturized body language making it evident that he was playing wounded boyfriend— _for who? For Pam?_ That didn't bode well; he had to know she would never take his side, had to have sensed how much she hated him. Him toying with her like this signaled danger, and I wanted to go over to the couch, to show both of them that I wasn't just going to abandon her to his nonexistent mercies, but I didn't dare move until I got a better sense of the situation.

He addressed Pam openly now, no longer even pretending to pay attention to me. "I mean, _think_ about it. We get her _out,_ expect her to stay safe at the hideout until sheee, uh, gets back into the _swing_ of things… then I turn around and she's _gone._ Now, just _imagine_ what went through my head. She's gone and got herself _caught_ again, that's what."

I was fuming, and a quick glance at Pam revealed a jaw clenched so tight it was getting ready to crack, but neither of us said a word. He had to talk this out before we had any idea of how this was going to go.

He paused, hollow eyes sweeping from her to me. "But then I remembered." I realized that his hand had inched out and landed on something on the lampstand, a picture frame. His fingers closed around it and lifted it nearer to his face for his perusal, and I didn't need to see it to know what it was—a photo of me and Pam, our cheeks pressed together as we grinned, out in the sunshine and surrounded by greenery in her favorite park, my arms around her, one of her arms around my shoulders and pulling me tight to her, her other arm out to hold the camera (her longer arms ensured that she always drew the short straw as far as picture-taking duties went). It was one of my favorite photos in existence, but now, seeing the way he was examining it, with one corner of his scarred mouth turned down sarcastically, I felt cool dread pooling in my belly. His jealousy came and went at strange times, erratic but constant enough that I always knew he didn't like to share me. Add that to the fact that he'd always been weird about Pam, almost never openly resentful of her but always seeming like he was _waiting_ for something, and I felt a strong need to get him out of here _now._

Before I could take a step, he spoke again, gaze darting up from the picture to Pam in a flash. "I _remembered_ that she has a _friend._ A, uh, _bestie_ that she hasn't seen in _months._ So I grab the van, mosey over _here,_ and… _voilà_. Imagine my _relief,_ huh? She's not on the side of the _road_ somewhere, she's just…" He paused, lips pursing as he sucked his teeth with a quick squelch. "She's just _here_."

A moment of silence followed his conclusion. Again, I tried to make myself _do_ something, fix the situation, but Pam's clear, controlled voice cut quietly through the room before I could muster the strength. "Yeah… _she_ has a name, by the way. It's not like we're divorcées discussing custody of our kid who doesn't get a say. Is it?"

I closed my eyes for a split second. _Oh, no, Pam. No._

The Joker's eyes lit up, taking to the barely-veiled hostility like a shark took to blood in the water. "Good point," he purred, and pushed away from the wall, arms unfolding and dropping to hang stiffly at his sides, corpselike. His shoes scuffed against the wooden floor as he finally advanced further into the room, closer to the couch where Pam sat, but she didn't move, just tilting her head back to keep an eye on him as the distance between them shrank. He'd apparently taken her words to heart, though, ignoring her now in favor of me. "So. _Harley._ Care to introduce me to your, uh, _friend_?"

I watched him, aware that I was wearing my discomfort plain on my face but unable to pull it back. _Don't do this,_ I tried to plead silently, praying that he would read my mind—it wasn't as if he hadn't done it before, after all.

He just stared blankly at me, waiting. After another beat of silence, aware that if I didn't play along then it would just be worse in the end, I heaved a quick sigh and said, "J, this is my friend, Pam. Pam, the Joker."

He flashed her a quick, muddy grin. " _Charmed,_ " he hissed.

"Likewise," she said flatly, and to her credit, her tone wasn't as openly sarcastic as it might have been. There was another moment of heavy silence, and she took her cue. Carefully, watching him without blinking, she rose slowly to her feet, and when he didn't react, she spoke again. "I get the distinct feeling that you're the kind of man who appreciates a good line of bullshit, but I don't exactly have the patience for it, so you'll forgive me if I cut through. You're a murderer and a terrorist."

The Joker raised his eyebrows and bobbed his head slightly—a mixture of _wow, just gonna come right out and say it, huh_ and _well, true enough._ Pam powered on: "I harbor no delusions about your regard for human life. I know that your being here right now is a bad sign. I know all this."

"Pam," I said, softly but warningly.

Pam, as always, knew better than I did. She went on, ignoring my interruption.

"In light of that, I want you to take the fact that I'm telling you what I'm telling you very seriously." He bent in a bit closer, folding his lips in on each other and lifting his black-smeared eyebrows to signal his undivided attention. Pam looked him directly in the eyes, pausing for a second to give the moment extra weight, and then, baring her white teeth just slightly, she ordered, " _Back the fuck off._ "

His immediate reaction was to look over her shoulder at me, and I could read his expression clearly, layered over with mocking as it was— _is she serious_? I scowled ferociously, resenting the two of them putting me in the middle like this, but I wasn't willing to just stand back out of spite and let them hash it out by themselves. I knew too well how that would end.

"Pam, shut _up,_ " I said sharply, but as predicted, once she'd gotten started, she was either unable or unwilling to stop.

"She's not your rag doll, clown," she spat, and he swiveled his head back, fixing his attention on her once more. "She's a living woman with free will. You don't get to dictate her comings and goings; only _she's_ allowed to do that. She's decided she wants to be with _me_ right now, and you can just back off and wait until she decides she wants to go back to you. _If_ that ever happens."

Her brief, viciously-delivered rant gave way to a heavy, horrible silence. The Joker was looking at her as though he couldn't quite decide whether she was stupid or just unbelievably ballsy. I felt my eyes drift shut, slowly exhaling through my nose. _Now she's done it._

Then, the penny dropped.

It seemed like everything happened at once. The Joker went for Pam's throat; she batted his hand away and slipped off to the side, not wanting to trip over the couch just behind her. I launched myself towards the both of them, barely feeling the shards of glass pierce the soles of my bare feet, but Pam wasn't going to get far—the Joker caught her by the hair and hurled her face-first into the wall. It only took her a second to recover and turn back around to face the danger, but it was too late. He was right there, ugly, rusty-bladed knife in one hand, other hand plunging into her long hair again, this time to hold her.

That was about the time I reached them, having vaulted over the couch and crossed the room to where they were deadlocked against the wall. I felt the brief temptation to jump on his back, to try to give Pam a fighting chance, but I decided against it almost immediately. A display of defiance that bold would result in someone getting killed. Instead, I pulled to a stop beside him, gripping his coat tight at the elbow of the arm that held the knife. "J, _don't_ ," I said urgently.

He may as well have not heard me, for all the reaction I got. Pam, for that matter, took no notice of me either. Her green eyes, blazing in outrage, were fixed on his face, and for his part, he returned her gaze serenely, the corner of his mouth hitched up in clear amusement.

Despite being the source of conflict between them, I had essentially ceased to exist. Glancing from one face to the other, I was startled by a sudden pang of jealousy, stabbing me high in the belly. For a split second, all I could think was _he hasn't even touched me since I got back,_ and all I could see was how close he was to her and how the knife blade was pressed almost lovingly against her white throat, and I felt tiny, worthless.

Pam spoke, keeping her chin up to avoid the touch of the blade. "Kill me and you'll lose her forever."

He shifted his weight, shoulders hunching closer to her and nearly obscuring my view, given how much smaller I was than both of them. I could only see his profile, his cheeks bunching up as he bit into the insides of his scars, then he asked, "Care to _bet_ on it?"

I tried to swallow the useless jealousy, choked on it, then forced it down. Trying to keep my voice as furious and level as possible, I said, " _Both_ of you are about to lose me, if that's really what this is about. I'm three seconds away from walking out of here and letting you guys kill each other."

Pam's eyes darted sideways to my face, almost exasperated, and simultaneously, the Joker addressed me, sounding insultingly preoccupied: "Not now, sweety-pie. Mommy and Daddy are working things _out._ "

Now the jealousy was paired with rage. I felt the nearly-irresistible urge to kick him soundly in the shin—it was only my desire to save Pam's throat from any accidental nicks that prevented me from acting on it.

The Joker returned his attention to my best friend, tipping his head back and regarding her from the lower rims of his eyes. "You really _do_ care about her," he observed, sounding almost bemused, as if the thought wasn't one he could easily grasp.

Pam was still glaring, a rattlesnake rendered ineffective by hands around her neck. "More than you _possibly_ could, psychopath."

I refrained from pointing out the irony of them holding this conversation right now, right as I fluttered at their elbows trying to get their attention. The two glasses of wine had turned on me—instead of feeling light and happy, I felt heavy, my head starting to throb from the alcohol and the stress. I still maintained a death grip on the Joker's elbow, as if my attempts to restrain him would do any good once he decided he was done toying with Pam.

He absorbed the latest attack thoughtfully, as if they were doing nothing more strenuous than casually debating politics that neither of them cared much about. However, since I was watching his face, I saw that light bob to the surface of his eyes—the one that said _someone's about to get hurt,_ and I tightened my grip on his arm until my knuckles went white. He didn't even seem to notice.

"Ya know, uh—Pam? _Pam,_ " he decided, ignoring the way her glare intensified at the way her name sounded coming from his throat, and I thought, _oh, sure, with me it's 'Plant-Girl' and 'your tree-hugger friend,' but now that he's talking to_ ** _her_** _he remembers her name._ "We're not that _different,_ you and me."

Pam scoffed, I scowled, and the Joker pressed on, " _No_ no no no no, _listen,_ " taking on the tone I knew well, _it sounds crazy but listen up and you'll learn something._ "You're _possessive._ I mean, take a _look_ at yourself. Your affection is more like… _smothering._ You might think your motives are… ugh, _pure,_ but face it: you want her around to be pretty and to do what you tell her what to do. In a world that defines, umm, _love_ as _selflessness_ —" he paused, popped his tongue against his teeth the way he sometimes did when he was scoring a particularly effective point—"maybe you wanna re-examine what it is you _really_ feel for her."

If looks could kill, the Joker would be underground on the spot. "You don't see the irony, _you_ lecturing me about truly _loving_ her?" she spat.

"Oh, _I_ don't care what people wanna call what we have," he assured her. "That's between me and her." His lids lowered slightly, meditatively, as he regarded her. "But I get the _feel_ ing… you _do_."

Pam's eyes widened slightly, and then she was turning to stare almost accusingly at me. "Are you _hearing_ this, Harley? He's _admitting_ that he doesn't care about you!"

"That's not how I heard it," I snapped back defensively, the heavy feeling from the wine combining with the angry jealousy and making me speak less gently to her than I normally would. "And anyway," I continued, dropping my voice as if the Joker wasn't right there with us, "you're _antagonizing_ him. With you picking fights like this, it's no wonder he's reacting this way."

Pam's jaw dropped. "Are you fucking _kidding_ me?" she demanded, seeming to momentarily forget about the blade at her throat—Pam always was incredibly brave, as if she truly believed that nothing would ever harm her. Normally, I found her attitude inspiring, worth emulating, if only to convince others that I was someone they didn't want to mess with, but just then, it was _stressing me out_. Pam, oblivious to my annoyance, continued: "Are you hearing yourself, making excuses for his behavior? This is _classic_ battered woman!"

"Uh, but I only beat her on Sundays," interjected the Joker.

I whirled on him. "Don't _you_ start; this is _your_ fault to begin with," I hissed.

He twitched his head to the side, as if dislodging a fly from his ear. "Fair enough," he said, and then planted the heel of his knife hand in the center of my chest and _pushed_. I stumbled backwards, the back of my thighs hitting the arm of the couch. Pam, in a fashion entirely true to her, reacted immediately once she no longer had a blade at her throat, aiming her foot at his groin.

His reflexes were with him, though, and he blocked with a knee, tightening his fist in her hair (pulling a yelp of startled pain from her in the process) and none-too-gently returning the knife to her throat. I started from the couch, but the moment he had Pam properly subdued, he twisted his head around to stare me down. " _Don't_ move," he barked at me. Without waiting for my response, he turned back to her, and, fearful and chastened, I leaned back against the arm of the couch, aware that the situation had taken a turn for the worse and that my interference would not help at this point.

He was speaking to her again, and I recognized the tone: it was the sort of mocking patience he used to address hostages, particularly those that were about to get blindsided. "So, listen, _Pam_ … first thing: you're _wrong_. I _could_ kill you. And uh, _Harley_?" He glanced over his shoulder to where I was shrinking against the couch—" _Sure,_ she'd be mad at me. But you're lying to yourself if you think… what, that she'd, ah, give me _up_ just cause I dumped you in the _river_ somewhere. I mean, think about it. I kill _you_ , and I'm all she has _left,_ really."

Pam stared at him, eyes huge but not afraid—more like _defiant,_ like she was daring him to do it already, and if I'd had the energy I'd have whispered her name, gotten her attention, _anything_ to make her quit looking at him like that, but the Joker's shove had been the last straw. I had no more energy to try to influence this skirmish one way or the other.

The Joker wasn't finished. He leaned in, prompting Pam to jerk her head back so abruptly that the back of it banged the wall, the sound of the dull thud teasing a wolfish grin from him. "But I'm gonna let you in on a little secret," he continued, voice softer and more teasingly high-pitched now. "I'm not _gonna_ kill you tonight. No, no, _nooo_ … no, instead, I'm gonna _take_ her from you. Again. In spite of _this_." All at once, he'd withdrawn his hands from her, effectively freeing her, but before she could react, he brought the hand that had been holding her by the hair back around to deliver a crushing backhand across the face.

He hit her so hard she went spinning, first into the wall and then to the ground. I let out a sharp cry of surprise and took a step forward, but he was suddenly almost _glaring_ at me, pinning me in place with his eyes. He stretched out the hand that still held the knife towards me and hissed through nearly-clenched teeth: "Oh, do you want me to leave her alone? _Fine_. You come with me and we leave _now._ "

I froze, eyes darting from him to Pam, who was slowly sitting up from the ground, her hand clasped to the side of her face that he'd hit. She was staring at me, too, and despite everything, there was still no fear in her eyes—just that defiance, daring me to refuse, like she would have done.

I felt a pang in my chest. It wasn't because I was uncertain—on the contrary, it was because I knew _exactly_ what I wanted to do. Even knowing the reprehensible prick he was, even as _furious_ I was with him, I ached to go with him, to be _near_ him, especially after my time away. The fact that he would leave Pam alone if I went with him cemented my decision.

I just didn't want to see the disappointment and anger in her eyes when I gave in.

So, like a coward, I looked away from her and ducked my head, hurrying past the both of them towards the door. I heard the Joker give a low chuckle as he turned away from her to join me, but nothing from Pam—which, in so many ways, was worse than her yelling profanities at me and condemning me for my stupidity.

I couldn't resist craning my neck to get one last look at her, but she was just sitting against the wall, head turned away from us. Then, the Joker seized me by the elbow, threw the door open, and pulled me out into the balmy late summer air, leaving the house open and Pam behind us.

Once we were a safe distance from her, I started returning to myself a little bit, helped along by the sharp pains in my bare feet. I realized that there were pieces of glass embedded in the soles, stabbing a little more with every step I took, but when I paused to try to do something about them, the Joker nearly yanked my arm out of the socket. It was no use arguing with him just then; I resolved to ignore the pain until I could actually address it and instead limped along with him as quickly as I could.

We didn't have far to go. There was a van parked just across the street from Pam's brownstone, and he steered me roughly around to the back, yanking the door open and all but throwing me inside. Cast off-balance by his forceful shove, I landed on my knees on the floor of the van, and as he climbed in behind me, I crawled fast to the back corner, trying to get some distance from him so I could _think._

He pulled the back doors closed, banged twice on the roof of the van, and then, as we started moving, slid down the side of the van to the floor, legs outstretched, deliberately crossing one ankle over the other and (also deliberately, I think) not looking at me.

Ironically enough, I was grateful for his inattention. It gave me a moment to collect myself, to put together whatever kind of arsenal I could for what was looking to be one hell of a confrontation.

I started by doing the easiest thing, the thing that required the least bravery: pulling the glass out of my feet. I'd started to bleed generously around the shards of the wine glass, so it was slippery work, and made the glass all but invisible—I had to brush my fingers over the bloody spots to feel for the fragments, inevitably provoking another sharp jolt of pain every time my fingertip brushed against one. A couple of pieces had gone in pretty deep after having been walked on, and I was torn between inwardly cursing the Joker and silently promising my soul to whoever would trade me a pair of tweezers.

It didn't help that my hands were shaking. I tried my hardest to ignore it, since acknowledging it would mean thinking about things I decidedly _didn't_ want to think about just yet, but in time I'd dug out all of the glass, my hands were still shaking, and I had no other options.

Now that I didn't have the distraction of tending to my feet, I had to admit to myself that I was angry, hurt, and frankly, on the verge of tears. I'd been holding up well, but the scene I'd just witnessed had practically been pulled from my worst nightmares, and with two glasses of wine sitting badly on my stomach, I wasn't exactly in a great position to repress how I felt about it.

I had never wanted the Joker and Pam to meet. Now that it had happened, I knew that for sure—they were both strong, jealous personalities, neither of which would shy away from doing violence to the other given half the opportunity. The little scene back there proved that, and I was both furious with the Joker for hurting her and racked with guilt because _I'd_ let it happen.

 _I should never have gone to her tonight._ I closed my eyes and tilted my head back against the wall of the van as a wave of self-loathing washed over me. _I should have known that no matter how inattentive he seemed he'd be tracking my moves; I shouldn't have gone to her right after barely saying two words to him. I'm such an idiot._

My self-flagellation session was interrupted by the sound of him drawing a slow breath in through his teeth, and I opened my eyes, immediately wary, knowing that he had to be making that noise for a reason. He still wasn't looking at me—in fact, his eyes were closed, giving the impression that there was nothing in that area of his face but empty pits of black. His hands were stretched out to mid-thigh, clasped together, and he was twiddling his thumbs.

I felt my anger spike, only exacerbated by my guilt and nearly erasing the fear. I opened my mouth to say something, but he beat me to it, speaking on the exhale.

"You _know,_ Harley… there are _easier_ ways to get my attention."

It took every ounce of self-control I had not to leap across the van and throttle him a little bit right then, and I commended myself for it. Unable to keep a certain edge from my voice, I repeated, "Your attention."

He opened his eyes, the whites flaring into place in contrast to the paint, and rolled them towards me. His only response was a slight smack of the lips, jaw shifting sideways as he rolled his tongue from one side of his mouth to the other. I felt the air catch in my chest, as if the smugness emanating from him was actively suffocating me. Then, I was speaking, my tone dripping with sarcasm—ill-advised, especially since I was out of practice being around him, but I was too mad to be smart.

"Right. Wanna offer me some suggestions? Because my _favorite_ way to _get your attention_ is to go to my best friend's house and assume you'll just show up uninvited and slap the shit out of her, but if you have something better, then by all means, I'm willing to give it a chance."

He blinked at me, slowly and deliberately, and it may have been my imagination, but I thought I saw the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Well, you _did_ go frrrolicking into the city with barely a word to _anyone._ "

I cut through the bullshit, needing to know we were standing before I proceeded: "You think I deliberately went to Pam's house in hopes that you'd come after me."

"Well, _didn't_ you?"

I stared at him, jaw gaping just a bit. When it became apparent to me that he was seriously asking me that question, the astonishment turned into an outright glare and I growled " _No_."

He put on a mocking frown. "Boy, did _I_ misread the situation."

I didn't let it go—didn't give in with a laugh at the cartoonish expression or the blatant sarcasm the way I might have had we been arguing over anything else. Forcing my voice to stay level, not wanting this to escalate any further than it was already going to, I said, "Do you _honestly_ think I'd knowingly put Pam in _any_ form of danger for _any_ reason? You think I'd intentionally lead you to her, knowing that you and I have fought about her in the past and knowing that you two would _definitely_ clash?"

"Hey, what do I know?" he asked, giving me a careless shrug. I opened my mouth, outraged at his ongoing flippancy and ready to let him have it, but something surfaced in his eyes, a microscopic widening of the lids, a new alertness, and I hesitated for a split second. His voice filled the brief silence.

"Okay, _sure,_ maybe I made a mistake. I _assumed…_ y'know, that you'd _understand_ that some things've changed while you were inside, that you'd know there'd be some things I'd want to _fill you in_ on." He paused, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully at me, but by now I'd seen the danger in this line of discourse and kept my mouth shut. He licked his lips and went on: "So, _yeah,_ I assumed that for you to _leave_ before we'd had a chance to _catch up_ … well, you must've wanted me to come _find_ you. Why else would you go?"

I sat up straight from where I'd been slouching almost defensively in the back corner, feeling my jaw stiffen in stubborn fury, and before I knew it, I was telling him the truth: "Oh, _I don't know._ Maybe because I've been in Arkham Asylum for _three months_ —all because of _you_ , might I add—and my _first night out_ , first thing you say to me is 'get me some coffee'?! Not even a 'hi, Harley, how were things in the loony bin? Oh, and by the way, sorry I abandoned you to the police way back in _May_.'"

He watched me deliver my brief, terse rant with unflappable calm, lips closed and slightly pursed, as if he was thoughtfully considering everything I had to say. As soon as I broke off to draw breath, he jumped in: "Well, I got you _out_ again, didn't I?"

I needed to get away from him, or else I really _would_ throttle him. I lurched to my feet, ignoring the blood, and, keeping to the opposite side of the van from him, crossed to the back doors and then banged twice on the roof. " _Stop_ ," I bellowed.

"Harley," drawled the Joker, finally ditching the obnoxious ingenuous act, even if it _was_ in favor of barely-veiled annoyance. " _What_ are you doing?"

I shot a quick glare at him over my shoulder. "Getting out of this van and away from _you_ ," I snapped, drumming my hand against the roof of the van again.

With a put-upon sigh, he unfolded his legs and rose to his feet. Tilting his shoulders back against the wall for balance in the moving vehicle and regarding me across the three feet of space between us, he said, "They're not gonna stop, you know. They know _I'm_ not gonna jump out in the middle of the city, and if _you_ get out and let any nearby cops get a nice peep into the back of the van, we're _all_ done for."

When the Joker is your voice of reason, you know you're fucked. Still, I wasn't ready to surrender quietly to spending the remainder of the ride with him. "Fine," I mumbled. "I'll just _jump_. As long as it means I won't have to stay back _here_." I looked for the door handles, but it looked as though this van was designed without them on the inside. Frustrated, I drew back and slammed the heel of my hand into the doors.

The Joker exhaled, briefly, through his nose, then, one hand planted on the roof for support, he took a step towards me.

I leaped sideways immediately, flipping so that my back was jammed into the corner of the van formed by the back door and the wall opposite him, flinging out my hand to halt him. " _Don't_ you come near me," I barked. Dimly, I recognized that I'd spent the last three months half-dying to be close to him again, but my current turmoil drowned out the voice in me that was screaming for me to just let it all go and let him come to me. I didn't know what I wanted or what I was planning to do, but I knew that if I let him touch me, I'd lose any strength or resolution I had.

Surprisingly enough, he stopped moving towards me at my request. Creases appeared in the paint across his face as he frowned; he tilted his head and looked at me as if I was a puzzle he thought he'd figured out, only to find that the last piece didn't fit _anywhere._ After a brief beat of silence, he asked, "What's the _matter,_ Harley?"

It was the absolute worst thing he could have asked. I felt tears start in my eyes as all the hurts he'd caused me in that single night clamored for acknowledgement, and I bowed my head, clinging to the back door and refusing to meet his eyes. In my peripheral vision, I saw him take another step forward, then he was ducking his head, too, trying to get me to meet his gaze.

I twisted my head violently to the side, staring steadfastly at the front wall of the van, trying to pretend that I _didn't_ feel my nose reddening and tears start to slip from my eyes.

Another step, and he was right there in front of me. My eyes slipped shut as I resigned myself to the inevitable, and then his gloved hand was gripping my chin with his characteristic lack of gentleness and he was pulling my head back in line with his. "Look at me," he ordered, his tone hard and impatient, and I opened my eyes.

His face was just inches in front of mine, that halfway-puzzled frown now firmly affixed to it. My lips parted and I drew a nearly-gasping breath. I'd been deprived of all things Joker during my incarceration; that awful afternoon with the spliced-together recordings of his voice had been the only time I'd been exposed to any little bit of him, cheap imitation or not. Seeing him—the living, breathing, dramatically and frighteningly-painted _him_ —up close and personal after so long alone… it just added more emotion and conflict to the fire already burning in my chest.

I managed to force myself to meet his eyes despite how ashamed I felt at the tears brimming in mine, and I whispered, trying to keep my voice from breaking, "I missed you… _so_ much."

He must have expected something like that, because the frown disappeared, but the poker face it left in its wake didn't help me a bit. He released my chin, and I turned my head away again, slipping away through the gap between his shoulder and the wall of the van. He let me go, turning to watch me as I put a foot or so of distance between us before sliding down the wall to the van floor again.

Looking resolutely away from him, speaking as softly and as levelly as I possibly could while still being heard, I went on: "I didn't want you to see how hurt I was that… that _you_ didn't seem to miss _me_. That's why I went to Pam's. I… I've been rotting away, totally _useless,_ in the asylum for three months, and I didn't want the first thing I did when I came back to be… going on a sulking jag for a few days because you weren't—I don't know, _happy_ enough to see me. It was safer to just leave until I get over it than to sit around and risk you picking up on my _hurt feelings_." I spat the words, feeling personally betrayed by my heart, and pretended not to notice as he slowly stooped beside me, afraid to look at him. "You're right. I didn't think it through. I should have been stronger and smarter and—" I wiped at my wet face with stiff fingertips—"I should never have gone to Pam's until I talked to you; _really_ talked to you."

We remained fixed in the tableau for a few seconds of silence, and then something touched my elbow. I glanced down to see that he was holding a folded handkerchief between his fingertips, offering, and in so many ways, it just made me feel _worse._ I took it, though, knowing that he'd probably read refusal as either defiance or further self-flagellation, and having admitted my weakness to him, I was _more_ than anxious to get over it and just be cheerful Harley again.

As I dabbed at my wet cheeks, still facing away from him, I heard him moving beside me, heard him release a quiet, almost resigned sigh as he sat on the floor next to me. I felt his leg slide into place beside mine, and the contact broke down the last of the barriers I'd hurriedly thrown up to protect myself from his indifference. Eyes still downcast, I turned towards him, slipping my legs over his and tucking myself into his side, face pressed into the crook of his neck.

He didn't push me away, like I mostly-expected him to. Instead, he curled an arm around my waist, rested his chin on the top of my head, and drawled, "Aaaaaall right, Harley," his tone lazily consoling, like he didn't much care whether I calmed down or not but knew he should probably at least offer some token reassurance.

I didn't care. For the first time since he'd stepped out of the shadows at Pam's place, my heart wasn't jumping and racing, I felt like I could _breathe._ The tears slowed, then stopped entirely, and I curled my palm around the other side of his warm neck, holding myself as closely to him as possible while he'd still let me.

And, as always when I was this near to him, there was a little voice chattering nervously in the back of my brain, reciting what would be sense if I was anyone else: _this is manipulation, he's manipulating you, gentleness like this is not in his nature,_ _ **especially**_ _not on the heels of a display of weakness like that. He's either lulling you into a false sense of security before he strikes or he needs you relaxed and malleable so you'll do what he wants you to do—don't give in—he hurt your dearest friend—_ _ **how can you be so calm?**_

I lazily let the thoughts drift through my mind, but none of them concerned me—I'd figured out by now that if I just let that little voice rattle off its fears, then it would eventually grow quiet. I'd learned long ago that the Joker _always_ had an ulterior motive to his kindnesses, but that often, his ulterior motive was compatible with _mine,_ so the best thing to do in any case was to kick back and enjoy it while it lasted. _I_ had confidence that it would all turn out well, even if my common sense didn't. At the moment, I was in a state of bliss, finally enjoying close physical contact with the man I loved for the first time in too long. I had no intention of ruining it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww. Manipulative, toxic, and insidious as the Joker is, I can't deny I'm glad to let Harley finally get some cuddle time in. It's been so long for the poor girl. That said, someone remind me why we enjoy this tremendous douchebag.
> 
> I really enjoyed writing the Joker-Pam showdown, just for the record. I've always loved their conflict in canon, the way they don't even pretend that they're not battling over Harley- the irony of course being that they totally dismiss _her_ wishes in the process. It was so exciting to get to play with it here; there are so many interesting dynamics in the way of them relate to each other. Not fun for Harley, but when you're drawn to extreme, unyielding personalities, blowups happen. Nobody tell Pam this, but she and the Joker are TOTALLY cut out of the same cloth. She just presents as more stable.
> 
> So, last time around, some of you might have noted what happens when I post a chapter and decide I don't need to proofread it one last time before letting it go live. In the word document of this story I keep, I write profane stupid notes to myself beneath relevant paragraphs. With the last chapter, it was some shit about me being proud about dropping two Gordon Ramsay references in the same paragraph, and I _did not realize I left it in the copy I posted online till the next day._ If you guys were ever in any doubt that I have an absolutely idiotic sense of humor, you know it now.
> 
> ...I loved writing this chapter, guys. It kind of hit all of my favorite things about writing Joker/Harley. I hope you all liked it, too.


	10. let's tessellate

_Bite chunks out of me_  
_You're a shark and I'm swimming_  
_My heart still thumps as I bleed_  
_And all your friends come sniffing_

**-Alt-J, Tessellate ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHjnGbNBuAw))  
**

After several long minutes of the two of us just lazily leaning into one another, he lifted his chin from my head. After a beat, I heard him sniff, then, suddenly: "Did you do something to your hair?"

Oddly enough, it was that abrupt, halfway-baffled question that finally got me. I laughed, tilting my head back to see him frowning down at me. "They don't exactly provide dye at the asylum, as you well know. I figured that since I had to do something about my roots anyway, I might as well try something new." When his frown didn't disappear, I faltered, dropping my eyes for just a moment before meeting his gaze again and asking timidly, "Is it okay?"

His expression cleared suddenly, as if he was waking from a daydream, and he gave me a quick, roguish smile. " _Perfect_ ," he said emphatically. I beamed at him, and then the van stopped and the driver killed the engine. "Ahh," he said, detaching my hand from his neck almost as an afterthought and knocking my legs off of his before standing up. I was quick to follow, but in the few minutes spent sitting there with him I'd forgotten about my tender soles—I winced as I put pressure on a particularly deep cut and grabbed his arm instinctively for balance.

The Joker frowned and glanced down at my bloodied feet as the back doors were thrown open and immediately 'tsked' at me. "Oh, _no_ , Harley—we can't have you tracking _blood_ all over the nice new hideout, _can_ we?"

If I didn't already feel as if I'd been profoundly needy enough for one day, I might have humorously shot back that _blood_ on the hideout floors was and always would be the _least_ of our worries, but as it was, I didn't see myself in a position to argue, at least till I'd recovered somewhat from the turmoil of the night. I was biting my lip, looking down at my bloodied feet and wishing I'd thought to put my boots back on after my shower, so I didn't see the Joker move. Next thing I knew, I was being swept up, and I gave a brief yelp of surprise before locking an arm around his shoulders—it had been a while, but I still remembered his tendency to _drop_ unsuspecting _girlfriends_ just for shits and giggles.

He appeared to have no intention of doing it then, though, jumping from the back of the van, keeping his balance perfectly, and starting briskly towards the house as soon as we were on solid ground, me cradled effortlessly against his chest.

 _This isn't affection or altruism, you know,_ muttered that nervous little voice in the back of my head. _He's doing this for the henchmen's benefit. He must need them to respect you, or at least your connection to him._

And again, I ignored it. My feet stung, I was back in my boyfriend's arms—literally—which is where I'd wanted to be for _months,_ and I wasn't going to let the little part of my mind that was always trying to assign motive to his every little action ruin it for me. I leaned my head against his shoulder and enjoyed feeling weightless for once.

The henchmen who had driven the van beat us to the building, opening the door and then stepping aside, and the Joker ignored them as he passed into the house with me. He said nothing to anyone as he crossed through the crowded rec room, and I played the part I imagined I was supposed to play, legs dangling, barely taking notice of my surroundings (and certainly none of the henchmen pretending not to stare and obviously wondering just what the hell had happened that resulted in the scene they were seeing) and absorbed completely by him.

Well. _Almost_ completely. I did spot Ace right before we reached the staircase, staring with a hint of a scowl, and if I'd felt he warranted such attention, I'd have gloated at him. As it was, I just narrowed my eyes slightly, then the Joker took us upstairs.

Back in his room, he planted one knee on the mattress and let me drop, ducking out from under my arm and rising again before I could reach for him. I followed him questioningly with my eyes, but he just halfway glanced over his shoulder as he crossed the room to his desk and said, casually but with unmistakable steel in his voice: "Go to _sleep_ , Harley. We've got a _lot_ to do, but it'll wait till tomorrow _._ "

 _I don't exactly feel like sleeping,_ I thought, but even as the rebellious idea crossed my mind, I realized how genuinely _tired_ I was. I'd been awake since seven o'clock in the morning; it was now probably two o'clock the next night, and it had been one hell of a day.

I curled up, noting as I dragged my feet towards me that the Joker apparently didn't give a shit about our sheets ( _because he couldn't give two shits about bloodstains and his excuse about the floor was bullshit_ ) and resolving to wash them out myself the next day. I turned on my side, facing the desk, where he'd taken a seat, his profile to me and lit by the single lit lamp in the room. Pillowing my head on my hand, I watched him until my eyes grew much too heavy to hold open and sleep dragged me under.

Sometime later, I opened my eyes and it was dark. I would have thought that I'd be a bit more confused as to my surroundings after _not_ waking up in the Asylum for the first time in months, but even in the dark, I could feel the thick mattress beneath me, smell the smells I associated with freedom, and I knew exactly where I was.

I felt the mattress shift beside me and knew why I'd awoken—he'd finally switched off the light and joined me. At some point I'd rolled over to the other side of the bed, _my_ side, facing the wall with my back to him, and I stayed there as he settled in, suddenly too nervous to do something as simple as roll over and curl up against him.

Defenses down, still partially asleep, all I could think was _you have no right to touch him; if he wanted you close he'd have pulled you to him already_ —oh, but I _wanted_ to, suddenly feeling every second I'd spent apart from him as acutely as if I was still locked up. He lay next to me, completely still, and I hated myself for my inability to just _roll over,_ but the few inches between us felt like miles.

The mattress suddenly trembled as he shifted his weight. A second later, I felt the barest touch at my shoulder—barely there, possibly even a ghost conjured by wishful thinking, but it was enough to break through my uncertainty and cowardice. As immediately as if he'd yanked at me, I turned over until I was nestled against his bare side, then decided that wasn't good enough. In one more quick, fluid move, I was atop him, gripping at his waist with my thighs, clinging to his shoulders, and pressing my chest hard against his, needing the closeness.

His fingertips dragged roughly along my hips before catching in the hem of my shirt, and obligingly, I yielded for just a moment, sitting up just long enough for him to drag the shirt over my head and away from my arms, then I was pushing back against him, every inch of my skin on fire in response to the direct contact with him after _much_ too long.

His hands continued their path upwards, tracing along my sides and leaving trails of electric sensation in their wake, landing on the heavy scar tissue in the shape of diamonds on both of my arms and pressing into it almost convulsively for a second, fingernails cutting, then the bruising fingers stretched out, gripped my upper arms hard, and his body beneath me surged, prompting a surprised little yelp from me as I suddenly found myself on my back, being borne down into the mattress by his weight.

Before I could do anything, his mouth was on mine, his hands on my shoulders, thumbs digging against either side of my clavicle and his elbows pressed hard into the insides of mine. Every inch of me was being covered, leaned on, or dug into by some part of him, and as his teeth cut against my lower lip, I suddenly got the distinct impression that he was trying to devour me, to absorb me.

I responded. With an adrenaline-fueled surge of strength, I ripped my arms out from beneath the weight of his bony elbows—and immediately locked them around his shoulders, simultaneously freeing my legs and wrapping them around his waist. I tightened my muscles and made use of gravity to pull him as closely against me as was perhaps humanly possible, kissing him back with a ferocity that I could feel made him grin for a half-second. I put in a Herculean effort, pressing and pulling our bodies together as if with enough force I could just meld with him in the dark, would never have to be away from him ever again, until the self-inflicted pressure on my chest made me break away from his mouth and turn my head to gasp for breath.

He took advantage of the freshly-exposed skin, pressing his nose against my neck just about the shoulder and setting the nerve endings on fire with the touch before delivering a mean bite that made me stop breathing for a moment, despite my desperate need for air.

He was suddenly leaning back, encountering temporary resistance in the form of my grip on his shoulders, but he'd always been stronger, and his last three months of activity compared to my wasting away at Arkham made it no contest. He broke my grip, and I let my arms fall open, feeling the emptiness as his weight lifted from my torso. I could breathe again, but I craved his touch so badly that the loss of contact scarcely seemed worth it.

Perched on his forearms, he looked down on me, tilting his head slightly as he watched me take heaving, much-needed breaths. After a few seconds of just watching me recover, he flashed me a grin that would have frightened me if I wasn't pretty sure what it meant. "Welcome _back_ , Harley," he said, then pounced again.

That was the last thing either of us said for quite a while.

* * *

After staying awake half the night on top of the loaded day I'd had before it, I was planning to sleep well into the afternoon, catching up on my rest and recovering some before starting the potentially complicated process of re-integrating myself into the operation.

The Joker had other ideas.

I didn't know how long I'd been asleep when something heavy fell onto the mattress beside me, but even before I cracked an eye open to see what it was, I could tell I hadn't slept nearly long enough.

The "something heavy" turned out to be the Joker, stretched out on his side next to me, and even as I registered that he looked practically _happy_ —reason enough to be wary—he was crooning at me: "Wakey, _wakey,_ Harley!" I immediately started glowering at him, but given that only half of my face was visible, the other half safely buried in the pillow, it probably didn't have much effect. He certainly didn't seem to think so, since he went on talking: "It's a _big_ day today, lots to do. Time to get up." Then, he actually leaned forward and pressed his mouth against my cheek, making a noisy " _mwah_ " unforgivably close to my ear.

In response, I hid my entire face in the pillow, partly to hide the dumb smile that crept over my face at the mark of affection but mostly because I was stupid-tired, and grumbled, " _You're_ the one that kept me up, _you_ can deal with me catching up on my sleep before we do _anything_ "—although it probably sounded more like "Mmph mph mmmph mmph _mphhh_." I felt him sit up beside me, and when he didn't say anything for a moment, I started to worry just a little bit.

I should have worried more. A second later, and something disgustingly warm and wet was poking into my ear.

I reeled up from the bed as if he'd just dumped a bucket of cold water on me—which, I was willing to admit, probably would have been preferable—and turned a furious glare at him (by that point, wisely, he was halfway across the room, unfortunately out of my immediate range). "Did you just give me a _wet willy_?" I shrieked.

His only response was a howling, teeth-baring cackle that nearly drowned out my outrage. "Ugh, ugh, _ugh_ ," I growled as I seized the sheets and tried to clean the inside of my ear, as if I could get rid of that repulsive feeling.

The Joker recovered before I did, and, still chuckling a little, made his way to the door. He paused just before leaving the room, turning and adding as an afterthought, "You go back to sleep, and I'm throwing you on the _floor_ and turning the mattress over on _top_ of you. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled mutinously, but it was enough for him. He turned and left the room, and I sighed and stopped kidding myself—the effects of the wet willy were far more psychological than physical; I wasn't going to be able to recover just by scrubbing at my ear with the sheets. I resigned myself to the fact that I was apparently up for the day, and with that acceptance, a large to-do list immediately popped into my head.

First, I stripped the sheets off of the bed and padded towards the closed door on the opposite side of the room, which I correctly surmised was a bathroom. I showered first, making use of the bare minimum of toiletries that furnished the room (i.e. a bar of soap) even while making an exasperated mental note to go out and buy at least some _shampoo_. Afterwards, I took the sheets, found all of the little blood spots and smears from my no-longer-bleeding feet, and used the sink, the soap, and elbow grease to scrub them out. I hung the sheets over the shower rod and then returned to the bedroom.

There, I ran into a problem. During my brief search of the area the night before, I hadn't discovered any of my clothes, and I hadn't thought to ask the Joker about them before they disappeared. After a moment spent looking around, my gaze fell on an unfolded pile of his clothes shoved off to the side, and I shrugged. _In a pinch…_

I found a white-and-lavender patterned shirt that smelled clean and buttoned it on. Given that he was so much taller than me and wore his shirts neatly tucked in, the hem fell nearly to my knees, and I glanced over at my discarded, too-long jeans for a moment before deciding against putting them on underneath. There were multiple benefits to going out among the henchmen in just the shirt. Primarily, it would be useful in helping me distinguish between the smart henchmen and the idiots who let their eyes linger for a beat too long. Nearly as importantly, though, my appearance would serve as a statement of joint femininity and dominance to the henchmen—simply put, it would make it abundantly clear that I was both a woman and was not subject to any of their bullshit, a message I thought was important to send, especially if Ace's attitude indicated the general pattern of thought among them.

Plus, I'd take any excuse I could find to not have to wear pants.

Decision made, I exited the room into the lazily buzzing hive of the hideout. There was a very specific atmosphere hanging over the place—I picked up on it as I moseyed down the broken staircase. There was excitement and energy, but it was restrained—the movements below were quiet and far between.

I emerged in the kitchen area, looking through to the rec room to see that the number of henchman had diminished by roughly two-thirds—Ace was among those absent, much to my relief. The remaining guys were stretched out on chairs, couches, and the floor, clustered quietly around a fuzzy TV. I got the distinct impression that they were waiting for something, which only strengthened my suspicion that today was significant.

The only visible henchman who _wasn't_ watching TV was George, who was sitting at the table in the kitchen, turned away from the entry I'd just come through, newspaper open in front of him. I stood uncertainly just inside the doorway, feeling the natural urge to go over and sit with him instead of in the living room with the group of _true_ strangers. I immediately decided against acting on the impulse, reminding myself of my resolution to avoid playing favorites and risk getting too close to any of the henchmen.

And then I decided to void that decision, because I knew a thing or two about self-fulfilling prophecies and if I decided to actively avoid George on the basis that I might like him too much, it would certainly have more of an effect on my brain than casually hanging out with him from time to time. I crossed the kitchen, remembering that I'd spotted some cereal during my search of the cabinets the night before. Someone had taken it upon themselves to buy a huge box of Lucky Charms. I was optimistic, but not truly impressed until I opened the battered old fridge and found a gallon of milk that was actually _fresh_.

"Someone's on the ball," I murmured approvingly.

George's paper rattled, and I glanced over my shoulder at him, part of me hoping that he'd be staring at my largely-exposed legs, therefore giving me an excuse to dislike him, but he just turned the page of the paper and resumed reading. I checked the time—it was shortly after noon, meaning I'd gotten about six hours asleep (not enough, given how much had happened within the previous twenty-four hours)—then took my cereal over to the table, curling up in the chair to his right before glancing again into the rec room to see what the guys were watching.

It was Mary Poppins—the _supercalifragilisticexpialidocious_ scene, to be precise. After a second spent trying to smother a smile at the sight of this big, rough-looking, tattooed bunch of adult men lounging around and watching Julie Andrews, I called over to them: "Not to ruin the fun, guys, but you might want to change the channel."

Most of them looked over at me. Most of them looked taken-aback. Several stared (not at my face) several others looked abruptly back at the television, and two looked me in the eye. One of these, a large black guy, about thirty years old with tattoos visible on his arms, asked "Oh, yeah? Why's that?" His tone was challenging, but not hostile.

"Hey, it's completely your decision, but I _don't_ think the Joker likes Julie Andrews," I told him frankly.

A few of the other guys who had looked away from me were looking back. Assured of their attention, I went on: "About five months ago, we were staying in this… old burned out club. We had a TV but it was busted-up and the reception is shitty, so we only got one channel, and one day that channel was playing The Sound of Music. So the guys start watching, because what the hell, right? And they were getting pretty into it, but then the Joker comes back from running some errand. He walks in, takes one look at Julie Andrews singing 'I Have Confidence,' and shoots the TV. Twice."

Most of them looked skeptical. George, without looking up from his paper, snorted. I shrugged. "You guys do what you want, but if you want to keep the TV… maybe find something that doesn't feature Julie Andrews. Unless it's the _Love to Laugh_ scene from this movie, but no promises."

There was some murmuring, the guy who'd addressed me said "Thanks for the heads-up," and after a minute, _Dumb and Dumber_ was playing.

"Oh, yeah," I said, half into my cereal bowl. " _Way_ better." From what little evidence I had, I surmised that the Joker, if not directly _fond_ of Jim Carrey (although I had my suspicions), was at the very least willing to put up with him.

After watching the scene where Lloyd and Harry eat some ill-advised hot peppers, I sneaked a glance at George. He appeared unruffled, both by me and the delightful idiocy blaring from the television, and seemed entirely focused on his paper. Not for the first time, I wondered what he was doing here—he certainly wasn't cut from the same cloth as the rest of the guys, and he didn't seem too interested in trying to bond with or buddy up to them, either.

Which reminded me. "Thanks for last night, by the way."

The paper folded at the corner, revealing a single, inexpressive blue eye. "For calling Ace off," I clarified, then frowned, adding, "Though… I guess for providing me with a car, too." My frown deepened as I realized that the car had been left parked on a street outside of Pam's place, and I silently prayed he wouldn't ask me about it.

He didn't, nor did he acknowledge my thanks. Instead, he directed his gaze towards my cereal, and as he turned a page, he said in a gravelly monotone, "You know that stuff's just sugar and weevils, right?"

I glanced down at my bowl—the dye on the marshmallows had dyed the milk a murky purple, and the remaining cereal had gone soggy. Which was how I liked it, but still… "Weevils?"

"Bugs get in the machinery, he said, eyes trailed on the paper again. "Get ground up and blended in with all the rest of it."

"You're making that up."

I saw the barest twitch of a smile lifting the left corner of his mouth, the only indicator that he was enjoying this conversation even just a little bit. "Check the box if you don't believe me. Two grams of protein per serving. You think that protein's comin' from, what, the wheat or the corn syrup?"

I looked dubiously at him, glanced down at my bowl, then surreptitiously pushed the bowl a few inches away from me. George had been staring at his paper the whole time, but I swore I saw that slight lift to his mouth that _could_ have been a smile grow more pronounced.

A door opened in the front of the house. I recognized the Joker's footsteps even before I read the new, universal tenseness in the atmosphere, then he came scuffing into the room, followed by a big henchman carrying a huge wooden crate. He glanced around, seeming not to notice that all of the henchmen were on alert, watching him, awaiting instruction, and his eyes finally landed on me. He pointed. "You. Follow us."

I was slipping out of my chair before he even finished the order, and he led the procession up the steps—first, the Joker, taking the cracked stairs two at a time, then the big henchman, awkwardly wrangling the crate, and lastly, me, trotting along to bring up the rear. The Joker led us all the way to his bedroom, and by the time I cleared the doorway, the henchman was setting the crate on the ground with a relieved sigh.

"Olaf, out. Harley, stay."

 _The henchman's name is Olaf_? I didn't say anything, instead studying him as he wiped his forehead on the back of his forearm, and by the time he passed me on the way out, I'd decided that it fit him.

The Joker took no notice of him, was reaching up to the jutting ledge above the big blacked-out window, so I took it upon myself to close the door behind Olaf. When I turned back, J had retrieved a crowbar from the ledge, and I discreetly put my back to the corner and watched him carefully.

He didn't seem to notice. He took the crowbar to the hinges of the crate and wedged them out of the splintered wood, making quick work of the lid. By then, reassured that the crowbar wasn't meant for me, I'd drifted forward curiously, and as he pried the top from the crate, I peeked inside—and laughed aloud out of sheer delight.

"I _knew_ it!" I crowed, bumping him aside so I could dig out the open boxes holding pounds upon pounds of my clothing and personal effects.

He tossed the crowbar carelessly aside, and as it clanged loudly to the floor, he ran a hand over his rumpled hair, smoothing it out of his face. "Boxed 'em up when we moved hideouts. They were stored at a unit in, uh, West Chelsea. We keep it as… more _permanent_ space."

I found my favorite revolver padded in with my carelessly-packed skirts and, scooping it up, I flitted over to give him a quick peck on the cheek. " _Thank_ you!"

He grimaced and detangled himself from my arms. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he grumbled rapidly. "Look, you've got _some_ time to settle in, but not _much._ Big game's about to start."

I paused, letting a favored pair of jeans fall from my hands back into the crate. _Here it is,_ said that annoyingly fearful voice in the back of my head, _the reason you're not still rotting in Arkham._ "Big game," I repeated questioningly.

He regarded me, lips drawn pensively together, then he adjusted the lapels of his coat, starting across the room. "Um—yeah. I mean—I mean, I don't _know,_ " he admitted, seating himself on the bed facing me, "but, uh, some things have happened while you were inside. _Interesting_ things."

I braced my hands on the top of the crate and leaned into them. "You gonna fill me in, or am I flying into this blind?"

He actually pulled his gleaming pocket watch from his vest and checked the time before he bothered to respond to my [rhetorical] question. "I can spare a few minutes to fill you in, _suuure_."

I let out a short huff, half-amused and half-annoyed, and was promptly disregarded as he rested his elbows atop his knees and leaned forward to address me: "You caught up on your _Criminal Empires in Gotham_ history and current affairs?"

"I'm at least three months out of date, and most of what I know, I learned from either you or the news, so you tell me."

"So much for the Arkham rumor mill," he muttered with a resigned sigh and head-shake. "Well—we'll keep it simple, just cover the last two years. So: Carmine Falcone, if not totally uncontested, was at least the most unquestionably _powerful_. That is, till he lost his _marbles_ —ah, for real, doll, not like you and me," he added helpfully. I snorted and skirted around the crate, going to settle on the floor between his legs—if we were talking about things that happened two years ago, I should probably get comfortable.

The Joker moved in unison with me, sitting up straighter and pulling his elbows back so I could drape one arm over his knee, and one hand dropped absently to my head, gripping it from behind and tilting it backwards so that my face was turned up to his. Peering down at me, eyes gleaming, he continued the history lesson: "His, ah, _retirement_ prompted a… mad _scramble_ for power, all the little mob families practically _trampling_ each other to snatch up as many pieces of his operation as they could _;_ it was all kind of… _hilarious_ , really."

"This was right as you were coming up?" I asked, mostly to confirm the shaky timeline I'd pieced together during my time with him.

In response, he tightened his fingers painfully in my hair, and as I inhaled with a hiss at the sudden pain, he said, "Teacher says save questions for the _end_ , got it?" I nodded even though the movement put even more strain on my scalp, because I knew that to say anything else at this point was to invite more pain. He nodded back, a touch of mocking to the motion, and went on.

"So. Carmine's gone. Power's divided all over the city, but the ma _jor_ ity of it ends up in the hands of three men. You've got Maroni—slick Italian, traditionalist, lot of support because, well, this _is_ the _mafia._ Then there was _Gambol_ , the fight-your-way-from-the-gutter type, got where he with brute force and a _lot_ of elbow grease… waste of energy _and_ boring, if you ask me, but hey. Different strokes. Last—the Chechen. _Just_ the Chechen. He was from—well, guess."

A tap at the back of my head signaled that it would be okay to speak, so I obliged: "Well, if I _had_ to take a stab at it, I'd say Chechnya."

"And people say high school geography is a waste of time," he said with exaggerated enthusiasm, and I giggled out loud, then reminded myself that I was supposed to be _listening_. I bit down on his knee to suppress my laughter, and he gave no sign of objecting—didn't react at all, really, aside from slightly tightening his grip on my hair and clearing his throat.

"Anyway. Just as _soon_ as we're _getting_ somewhere, as soon as clear battle lines are being drawn, these guys up and decide to… _band together._ Common enemy, you see. So, me being the, uh, _charitable_ guy I am, I offered my _unique_ talents to them—they give me their money, and I _kill_ the Batman."

He paused there, made a face, and twirled his free hand in the air as if hunting for the perfect phrasing. After a second, he shrugged twitchily and gave up. "Well. One thing led to _another,_ and before you know it… uh, Gambol and the Chechen are… _unfortunately_ out of the game, and wouldn't you know it, Maroni got himself in a car accident that nearly killed him." He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "He was in _no_ shape to run the city, that was for sure. This was… mmm, a little less than a _year_ ago."

 _Right around the time you were being committed to Arkham,_ I thought, narrowing my eyes ever-so-slightly at him. He definitely wasn't telling me the whole story, but I wasn't going to interrupt again.

"As you can imagine, ever since then, things have been a little… mm… chaotic. With no strong—or _willing_ —candidate for the criminal _throne,_ so to speak, Gotham's criminal underworld has just been staggering along the best it can." He fixed his gaze on the opposite wall, and I saw it go distant as he murmured, with no tone except perhaps one of slight interest: "Until recently."

I sat up a bit straighter, brow furrowing slightly in worry. _What happened recently?_ I was dying to ask, and when he just continued to stare at the wall for another moment, I nearly did. Fortunately, he snapped out of it before I found out just what he'd do if I asked another question against instruction.

Returning his eyes to me, he asked a question. "Have you ever heard of _Oswald Cobblepot_?"

I frowned deeper. "Oswald… no."

"Yeah," he said resignedly, and slowly worked his fingers out of my hair. "Neither has anyone else." Both hands freed again, he reached down to grab my upper arms and lifted me to my feet, pulling me closer to stand between his knees before going on. "But he's been slowly accumulating turf over the past few months, he's put together a _very_ respectable outfit, all things considered, and he's invited us for _cocktails_ a little later today."

That last one took a second to process. Once it got through, surprise made me say the first thing to cross my mind without regard for the potential consequences: "You're planning on _going_?"

Fortunately, apparently it was the perfect time for Q&A. J rubbed my upper arms briskly, lingering on the fabric covering the diamond scars for a moment before looking mischievously up at me. " _We're_ planning on going," he corrected me.

It struck me that I was _not_ wearing much in the way of clothing and that I was standing intimately close to him, so the fact that I dismissed that tempting realization right away bore testament to how seriously I was taking the Cobblepot thing. Frowning down at him, I said, "You can't see any way in which this little date could go _horribly_ wrong?"

"Oh, about a dozen," he assured me.

"So you _do_ realize that if Cobblepot's looking to be criminal kingpin, you, as Gotham's resident terror threat and general baddest of the _bad guys,_ are standing in the way of that goal and the easiest way for him to get around that is to kill you?"

"Abso _lute_ ly."

"Yet you're _still_ planning to meet with him?"

" _We're_ still planning to meet with him." He tsked at me. "Harley, sometimes I feel like you just don't _listen._ "

I frowned, the precise phrasing he'd been using finally sinking through. "Wait. You said he invited _us?_ Like, asked _me_ in particular?"

" _Now_ she's getting it."

"When'd you get this invitation?"

He watched me, head slightly tilted, measuring my reaction as he said deliberately, "Last night. Minutes before I got back to the hideout."

I blinked. "I'd only been out of the asylum for like, an hour at that point. I'm willing to be not even the cops knew; how did…?"

"That's _one_ of the many reasons I've accepted _Oswald's_ invitation. He's clearly well-sourced, and he's paying _attention—_ uh, specifically to _us._ I'd like to know _why._ "

I shook my head, but if the Joker had already thought things through and was comfortable with the idea, then I'd accompany him, however reluctantly. "Okay," I sighed, making sure that my tone conveyed the fact that I thought this was a _bad_ idea.

He cocked his head and flashed me a grin. "Any more questions?"

I studied him for a second, then, conscious that the tiny smile growing on my face was going to give me away any second, I blurted, "What, _exactly,_ was the extent of your involvement in the deaths of Maroni, Gambol, and the Chechen?"

"Ah, ah, ah!" he, said, springing to his feet and planting an index finger against my lips. " _First_ —Maroni's not _dead_ yet _,_ and _second_ —let's agree that the _shrink talk_ belongs back at Arkham, hmm?"

"You took them _all_ down, didn't you," I said against his finger, now openly grinning.

I was looking straight into his eyes, so I could see the amusement forming without his permission just before he ducked his head, pretending that he'd been planning all along to pick up my hand and press his mouth against the inside of my wrist. By the time he pulled back, the smile was nowhere to be seen. "Pick something to wear," he instructed me. "Something a little, er, _dressier_ than usual—this is a social call, not business, after all—but something that'll go with your _usual_ makeup. Got it?"

"My boyfriend's the toughest, scariest guy in the _whole_ city," I said in lieu of answer, still grinning at him. His mouth twitched, and, apparently realizing that I wasn't going to let it go, he reached out, grabbed my shoulders, and physically turned me around.

" _Go._ "

I went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mm-hmm, damn straight I wasn't going to miss the opportunity to get Harley laid for the first time in months, poor woman. And henchman hangouts! Call me a sap, but I like writing everyone getting along, no matter how short-lived it might turn out to be.
> 
> Not much in the way of author's notes today, except to boast that I spelled supercalifragilisticexpialidocious right on the first attempt. Totally booked with the brother's wedding stuff, trying to hurry and get this out to you guys before I lose any semblance of all free time, heh. On that note, I'll respond to comments as soon as I can! I wanted to get this out fast and it's late so I'm opting to publish before replying, but I'll get to you guys, I promise. :)
> 
> ...anyone ready to meet Oswald? We're gonna hang out with him some next chapter. Finally, the ball's rolling. Thanks for the support, everyone, you're rad as hell.


	11. your double diamond disposition

_I saw you reel them in for miles_  
_Each captivated crooked smile._

 **-Timber Timbre,** _**Magic Arrow ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w9988eyCNSg))** _

Two hours later, we were zipping through the Diamond District in Midtown Gotham, on our way to meet Gotham's newest crime lord.

Mindful of George's warning the night before, I'd expressed some misgiving about leaving the hideout in the daytime, but the Joker had dismissed my concerns with an irritated gesture. As it turned out, we were picked up right at the back door by a town car with dark-tinted windows—for a moment, I was taken off-guard, since our usual mode of travel was Windowless Van. For one wild half-second, I thought the car was sent by Cobblepot, who would necessarily then have to know the location of the hideout, but I dismissed the thought even before I climbed into the car and saw that George was driving. J would never be so careless.

…well, he _might_ , but not with the location of our headquarters. Appropriately isolated living and working quarters were hard to find.

It was obvious given the car and the instructions for how I should dress that the Joker was going for a very specific sort of presentation, which only confused and worried me more. He wasn't exactly a play-along kind of guy—it was much more like him to disregard the Powers That Currently Be, whoever they were, and employ his usual _smash-em-up_ approach with everything. From where I sat, it meant that he was either playing his own invisible game or that this Cobblepot figure was powerful enough to necessitate some making-nice.

I hoped desperately it was the former, but after a few glances at him, I decided not to ask. He had a very specific expression on his face—even after all these weeks, I recognized the alert but distant eyes, slightly clenched jaw, and pursed lips. He was thinking. It would be best not to bother him, so I sat back and stayed quiet the whole ride.

He'd chosen to present himself as what I'd started to call Classic Joker—heavy purple greatcoat, emerald-green vest, tailored purple pants, patterned dress shirt underneath—this time lilac paisley. The dress shirt could vary for Classic Joker, as long as it stayed in the neighborhood of blue, but everything else stayed the same. When he was dealing with repeat customers, he tended to switch up his colors and patterns, but for first-time meetings, he tended to go with the outfit everyone knew and loved. Well, _knew_ , at least.

On my end, keeping in mind that the Joker had asked for _dressier than usual,_ my usual red-and-black flexible corset, tulle skirt, and leggings combo was out. Instead, I'd ended up choosing a black lace cocktail dress, and I couldn't resist pairing it with black motorcycle ankle boots without a heel. J could say it was a _social occasion_ all he wanted, but I wasn't going to get stuck in six inch heels when I needed to run for my life—I'd leave that to stronger women. The sleeveless dress exposed the distinct diamond scars on my skin, and with the messy blonde pigtails and neatly-done harlequin makeup to match and contrast the Joker's aggressively smeared greasepaint, I looked like classic Harley Quinn, playing into the specificity of Cobblepot's invitation. He wanted me? Fine. Here I came.

The silent ride suddenly ended as George pulled into a back alley in the thick of the district, and I pulled myself from thought, straightening my skirt and meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror.

"All off for the Iceberg Lounge," he said dryly. "Back exit, as requested."

 _Iceberg Lounge?_ I mouthed, but the Joker was already exiting the car, and after a quick, apologetic "Thanks!" to George, I followed, not wanting to be left behind.

The henchmen in the following van had jumped out as well—just three in clown masks, which I thought was generous of the Joker given that we were, at worst, walking into a trap. He didn't seem worried, though, so I tried not to stress out too much. I couldn't help pressing my frilly skirt against my outer right thigh, though, reassuring myself that the holster holding my second favorite gun, a Beretta, was still secure. Revolvers were fun, but if it came to a shootout, I didn't want to have to reload every six shots. I was carrying two extra magazines in my clutch. No one could say I wasn't prepared, though in my opinion, it wasn't prepared enough. Still, there was only so much weaponry you could carry with you on a semi-formal outing.

The back door had been propped open— _such consideration_ —and the Joker waved two of the henchmen through. He was on their heels as soon as they entered, and I tailed him just as closely, with the last henchman bringing up the rear. I was grateful I'd gone with the boots instead of heels—we entered immediately into a cramped kitchen crowded with shouting people, making navigation a bit tricky. Going by the way that none of them reacted other than shooting us quick, startled glances, they were expecting us, but we swept along so quickly that I couldn't really get a grasp of the general atmosphere.

The kitchen gave way to what I supposed was the Iceberg Lounge proper—and, looking at it, it was easy to see that _lounge_ was just code for _nightclub_ , a pretense at elegance so that the owner could charge double on drinks. Sure, it was a bit cleaner and more stylish than the places I'd frequented in my college years, shadowy and lit exclusively with blue and white lights, the dance floor was huge, and the bar was a beacon of glass and light, but still—it was a dressed-up nightclub, and it would be empty and quiet for a few more hours at least.

The Joker glanced over his shoulder at me. I gave him a slight smirk, which he returned, and then someone was approaching us and we both directed our attention forwards.

The thin, nervous-looking man with shining blonde hair and wearing the well-fitting tailcoat clearly wasn't getting paid enough. He started out bravely, "Ah, you must be…" but then trailed off when fixed with five impassive stares, only two of which were coming from actual human faces (not that the human faces were much more reassuring, at least not in the Joker's face). I'd been on the other end of the clown-mask-clown-boss stare combination. It was tough. I felt a fleeting touch of sympathy for him, but it was gone by the time he visibly collected himself and continued as if he'd never stumbled in the first place: "Mr. Cobblepot has been expecting you. Please, follow me." He didn't look particularly thrilled at the prospect of turning his back to us—really, looked like he'd taken a great big bite out of a lemon—but damned if he didn't do it anyway, even resisting the temptation to look behind him every two seconds to make sure we weren't going to murder him in the dark.

 _Okay, so loyal help, or at the very least, well-trained,_ I noted as we followed him across the club in an uncharacteristically quiet little procession. _That could prove difficult if things get bad._ Then I shook it off and firmly reminded myself that we weren't at war with Cobblepot.

 _Not yet,_ whispered that voice in my head. As a result, I was scowling as we were taken through a short, dark hallway and led into the private room at the end.

The old-fashioned mahogany-and-red-velvet decor, a complete contrast to the minimalist, modern design of the club, made it apparent that this wasn't simply some room set aside for private sessions. I was certain that this was Oswald Cobblepot's office, and that the figure rising from behind the desk to greet us was the man himself.

I took a good look at him, trying to gauge exactly who we were dealing with. He was a little past middle age and very lightly-colored, with rather pasty skin, watery blue eyes, and white blonde hair. He was hardly obese, but he was definitely carrying some extra weight, especially in the belly. Still, it was clear that he took efforts with his appearance—his hair was neatly combed, his face was clean-shaven, and he wore a tuxedo: white jacket, white shirt, black pants, crisp and pressed.

As I looked at him, only one thought sprang readily to mind: _This guy?_ _ **This**_ _guy's running half of Gotham? He looks like a liberal mayoral candidate._

As if he could read my mind, the Joker glanced back at me again. Naturally, he wasn't going to betray any of his thoughts with any discernible facial expression, but I saw the wild glint in his eye and knew from the look of it that the thoughts going through his mind were similar, if not identical, to mine. I maintained my stoic face, telling myself it would be bad to make enemies right out of the gate by getting the giggles before a word was even said, but it was hard.

"Ah, at last," said our host, coming around the desk with his hands extended and a true politician's smile on his face, and like a politician, he ignored the two henchmen in the lead, going directly to the Joker and holding out his hand. "The Joker, is it? Or would you prefer _Mr._ Joker?"

I'd moved to stand mostly behind J, my view obscured by his shoulders, but I didn't need to see his face to know that he was wearing his _are-you-kidding_ squint at the question. After a short pause, he, shrugged, reached forward, and clasped hands gamely with the little man. "Ah. Most people just say _Joker_ ," he said, using his _see-I'm-being-polite_ tone and the accompanying light, nasal, unthreatening voice.

"Of course, of course. I'm Oswald Cobblepot," said Cobblepot, clasping the Joker's hand with both of his and pumping it rather vigorously. "I've been wanting to meet you for some time now; you're… quite the celebrity in Gotham."

"Um," said the Joker, extracting his hand from Cobblepot's grip as soon as he could and sidestepping neatly, exposing me. I shot him a quick filthy look in the split second it took Cobblepot to focus his gaze on me—this man didn't _look_ particularly scary, but, as unbelievable as it might seem, he _was_ a formidable figure in Gotham's underworld. I didn't appreciate being shoved front and center just so J could play-act uncomfortable, but ultimately, as always, I trusted that he had something cooking, so I met Cobblepot's eyes and offered the bright smile that seemed to unsettle people, at least when I was in full makeup.

He seemed pleased at the sight of me—at least, the practiced smile he wore seemed to grow a touch warmer, his eyes a bit brighter. "Ah, Miss Quinn!" he greeted me enthusiastically, stepping forward and taking my hand in his. He didn't shake mine—instead, he held it, covering it with his other hand as he looked earnestly into my eyes and said, "My dear lady, how lovely to know you. I'm thrilled you were able to attend on such short noticed; I _had_ hoped to finally meet you."

The Joker shifting the spotlight to me had been unexpected, but I could read the signs—Cobblepot was practically foisting us into the roles of bad cop, good cop, socially speaking, and I was definitely the good cop (I doubted the Joker even knew _how_ to be good cop). So, I maintained my smile, even though the eye contact and his prolonged grip on my hand was making me uncomfortable, and I said, "I admit, it was a bit of a surprise, given that I've been patently unavailable until… well, last night, as a matter of fact."

He chuckled, sounding a smidge pleased with himself as he said, "Aren't I the lucky one?"

I tilted my head to the side, still beaming, but couldn't resist jabbing a little further, feeling around for something: " _Very_ lucky. Or remarkably well-informed."

He patted my hand with one of his and leaned in conspiratorially. "It behooves one to have friends in all sorts of places, wouldn't you agree?"

Clearly, he wasn't going to dispense with the coy act anytime soon, so I figured it was time to back off. Instead of pressing further, I let loose a theatrically girlish giggle as I tried to place his accent, eventually landing on Transatlantic—yet another oddity; practically no one employed the obviously-affected accent anymore.

Cobblepot, still holding my hand, sought out the Joker, who had taken to prowling around to room—having moved past the paintings lining the walls, he was now examining an antique shotgun hanging just over Cobblepot's desk. "Ah, Joker—do you think it would be possible to limit this meeting to just you, me, and the lovely Miss Quinn?"

I looked at the Joker, working to keep my worry out of my expression. I didn't want to send the guys outside, not in Cobblepot's territory. That way, it'd be all too easy for his men to take them out quietly, while we sat in Cobblepot's office totally unawares. From that point, bursting in and gunning the two of us down would be a piece of cake. Of course, we had our guns, we could make it hard for them, and part of me was convinced that nothing on earth could _really_ kill the Joker, but still—I was scared. And because it was my job, I didn't show it.

The Joker, for his part, stared at Cobblepot just long enough to make the atmosphere slightly uncomfortable, then suddenly, he smiled. "Sounds like a _great_ idea."

 _I guess we're really doing this, then,_ I thought resignedly as he and Cobblepot turned and signaled their men in unison—Cobblepot with a little dismissive wave, the Joker by drawing his finger threateningly across his throat. Silently, the men retreated, and then it was just us.

"Please," said Cobblepot as soon as the door closed behind them, "have a seat." He gestured to a little nook at the side of his office—a sitting area, furnished with a lounge bordering the wall and two big leather armchairs beside it, facing one another over a little wooden table.

The Joker gamely took one chair. Cobblepot took the one across from it. And I, deciding that the lounge looked uncomfortable and that I had been invited to this meeting for a reason—one that wasn't _stay out of the way and look pretty_ , if the way the focus had been intentionally put on me at the start of this meeting was any indication—I instead opted to perch on the arm of the chair beside him. His gloved hand slid up my back right away, fingertips tracing their way to my side, where he let his hand rest, and the gentleness of the touch told me I'd made the right call. Simultaneously, then, we looked at Cobblepot.

If he was at all unsettled by the killer clowns moving in perfect unison three feet away from him, he did a good job of hiding it. He gave us a practiced smile, looking from one painted face to the other, and then, settling on J, he began. "I suppose I don't need to tell you I'm a _huge_ fan of your work."

The Joker made a polite _listening_ face. I could read it for the mockery it was, but I hoped Cobblepot couldn't, and for my part, I disguised my amusement as a half-smirk that would read as cockiness.

"I mean it," Cobblepot insisted, leaning forward to uncork a bottle of scotch that sat on the table between the chairs, pouring a few fingers of alcohol into one of several waiting glasses and then holding the bottle questioningly towards us.

"No, thank you," I said demurely.

" _Sure_ ," the Joker said, leaning forward and snatching the whole bottle out of Cobblepot's hand. Watching, I saw the man flinch as J's hand collided with his, and he averted his eyes, though whether it was to recover himself or to avoid watching the Joker slurp forty-year-old Dalmore scotch directly out of the bottle was anyone's guess.

He recovered himself quickly, though, and looked right back at us. "You may be surprised to know that the way you've kept this town frightened and confused has been immensely helpful to me," he said, still in that light, practiced socialite-entertaining-guests tone. "I mean, last Halloween?" He laughed, adjusting his spectacles and sipping from his glass. "The gas attack, followed by Miss Quinn's rather spectacular assault on Arkham Asylum? Truly inspired. The two of you work well together."

The Joker and I exchanged a glance. He shrugged and I just barely refrained from scowling at him.

"Really, Miss Quinn," said Cobblepot, leaning forward and catching my eye again, either not noticing the exchange or ignoring it, "I'm _so_ pleased that you're here."

The Joker's hand tightened around my waist; he drew me back, closer to him. "Is there any way we can get to the point, ah, mmm, _today_?" he demanded before taking a pull from the bottle in a way that looked almost _petulant._

I leaned slightly back into his shoulder and looked at him, intrigued but trying not to let our host see—I was almost certain J wasn't jealous, rusty at interpreting his moods or not… but he was certainly _acting_ like it. That was just it, though: the Joker didn't typically bother with displays of possession in the face of a threat so much as quickly and violently eliminating that threat. This _was_ acting, and it was for Cobblepot's benefit.

The man in question sat back, chuckling affably. "Of course," he declared. "I do apologize. I can be a bit… verbose. Now, where was I?" He pondered into his glass for a moment.

I kept my eyes on him, but, testing an idea, I slipped my hand behind the Joker's neck and wound my fingers into his hair—that small cluster of frizzy curls right at the nape, mostly hidden by the rest of his hair. He always missed that bit with the dye; it was still his natural muddy brown. The fact that he didn't immediately knock my hand away despite the fact that we were conducting business spoke volumes, and just like that I knew what his angle was.

"Oh, yes," Cobblepot said abruptly, though his eyes had been tracking the motion of my hand. "Well, as you probably know, given the fact that you accepted my invitation, I've benefited rather substantially from the confusion and chaos your work has caused."

"Are you saying you brought us here to give us a cut?" I asked, meeting his eyes without blinking. Without hesitating for a moment, he let out a peal of good-natured laughter, and I grinned back, the reassuring pressure of the Joker's fingertips against my side making me confident that the more I took point on this, the better.

"Well," said Cobblepot, still smiling, speaking to me now rather than the Joker, "it's rather more accurate to say I would like to cut you _in._ See, officially, we've been working independently of one another thus far, but we have common enemies, and frequently, common _goals._ I believe that if we combine our resources… well. We can both get the things we want."

Beside me, the Joker snorted, drawing our attention immediately. He cleared his throat, covering his mouth with a gloved fist, then said, "Ah… okay. I'll bite. Why don't you _tell_ me what I _want,_ huh, Ozzie?"

Cobblepot's genteel smile didn't falter, and I saw a look come into his eyes that I didn't entirely like: a look of almost smug satisfaction. "Why, the Batman, I should think," he said, too casually.

Neither of us responded to that right away. The Joker dug his tongue into the hollow of his cheek as he stared the little man down with frowning, thoughtful eyes, and I glanced between the two of them cautiously and tried to predict where this was going, whether the Joker was just going to pull his gun and shoot Cobblepot dead right then. Batman was a touchy subject; I never knew quite how the Joker was going to react to it.

Cobblepot pressed his advantage. "I don't wish for anything permanent, and I have no desire to restrict either of you or your movements in any way," he said, sitting back in his chair with his glass resting comfortably on his knee. "Like any criminal worth his salt, I've paid attention to your movements, and I've hardly failed to notice that throughout your—" he twirled his hand absently in the air—" _career,_ you've seemed to rather thrive on media attention and the attention of the Batman… attentions that _I_ , on the other hand, have sought to avoid as much as possible.

"Thus far, I've met with a satisfactory amount of success in that effort, but your very presence here in this meeting with me is as strong an indicator as anything else: I'm starting to gain a name, a reputation. In the underworld, that will prove useful, but it won't be long before the reporters come sniffing, then the police, _then_ …" He closed his eyes and gave a little shudder that I wasn't convinced was entirely genuine. "The Batman."

The Joker took another pull from the bottle. I jumped in, thinking that if I let Cobblepot get going again, then we'd be there all night. "You have our sympathies, but what exactly are we supposed to do about it?"

"Ahh, Miss Quinzel, cutting right to the point," he said, sounding pleased. "Well, here it is."

"Finally," mumbled the Joker into the neck of the bottle. Cobblepot's eyes darted to him for half a second, then returned to me.

"I would like you to do much as you've done for the past couple of years—only in specific places, at specific times every once in a while," he said simply. He glanced between us, searching for a reaction.

The Joker shifted in the chair and tilted his face up to me, and obligingly, I leaned down so he could mutter into my ear. To Cobblepot, I'm sure it looked as though we were conferring, but all the Joker said to me was "Y'know, behind his back, people call him _the Penguin_."

It was only the past three months of constant therapy sessions wherein I needed to maintain a strong poker face that kept me from bursting out laughing right then. I glanced sideways at Cobblepot and nearly lost it again at the sight of him, because with his build and the black and white tuxedo, it _fit_ —fortunately, his jacket was white instead of black, which kept me from tipping over the edge. I didn't know what I would have done if the color scheme had been perfect.

 _Get a grip,_ I told myself, and leaned pointedly away from the Joker, who was smirking, doubtless knowing exactly how close he'd brought me to cracking. Feeling my poker face solidify, I said, "You want to hire us to be a distraction?"

He thought about that for a moment. "I don't know that I'd put it quite that way… but I suppose essentially, yes. You see, my men suffered a rather close encounter with Batman a week or so ago, and I _really_ can't afford to have him sticking his pointy noise into my business, you understand?"

I glanced at the Joker, who stared back at me for a second before lifting his shoulder in a noncommittal half-shrug. Since he still wasn't talking, I addressed Cobblepot again: "With due respect, Mr. Cobblepot—"

"Oh, please, my dear, call me Oswald," he encouraged, wearing that warm, practiced smile.

"Um—" I had no desire to be on a first-name basis with this man, but I wasn't going to tell _him_ that, so I simply powered through the moment. "With due respect, and no intended threat—the last time mob bosses made the decision to work with the Joker, two ended up dead, one ended up maimed. Hopefully you see why we don't exactly have great confidence in the motivations of anyone who _knows_ that and still wants to work with us."

Cobblepot spread his hands. "As far as I see it, that was just the path being cleared for me."

I smiled quickly and almost sincerely, acknowledging the point. "Even so, you can see why we might be wary of your offer."

"Of course." He leaned forward, looking at the Joker and speaking directly to him now. "It's true that I don't know the entire story behind what happened with you and the bosses last time. It's true that I know I should be wary of working with you. But I can't help but note that a partnership between us would be nothing but beneficial, and it wouldn't inhibit or harm either of us in the least bit. See, Batman's considerably more interested in _you_ than _me,_ and you—well, you don't mind the attention, do you? You make noise, he comes straight towards you. I get a quiet window in which to conduct business, you get to play with the Batman, _and_ you get a cut of my profits, say… er, five percent?"

The Joker stared at him, again remaining silent until Cobblepot felt the pressing need to clear his throat and adjust his collar. Then, slowly, the Joker said, " _Twenty_ -five, and maybe I'll consider it."

Cobblepot laughed his warm laugh immediately, a habit I was beginning to identify as a defensive reaction to an uncomfortable situation. "Well, I'm sure there's room for negotiation, but _twenty-five_ is a little excessive, don't you think?"

The Joker gave him a look that I was all too familiar with—eyebrows down, lips parted slightly, looking at him sideways in totally-exaggerated and completely-insincere disbelief. "Well… what? You think I'm gonna risk _my_ life—"and he gestured towards his chest with the bottle—" _and_ waste well-trained henchmen for, what, a few bucks? No—I don't know if you _know_ this, but competent help isn't _easy_ to find."

Cobblepot chuckled his pleasantly-defensive laugh again. "I don't know if you quite understand—five percent of the sort of score I'm undertaking these days is easily in the neighborhood of half a million dollars. All for simply adjusting the timeline of your usual schedule a bit. Again, I'm hardly asking you to do anything you're not _already_ doing."

"No. You're just asking me to go to work for you," clarified the Joker. The mockery had dropped from his expression now in favor of an utterly terrifying poker face.

Cobblepot saw the danger and backpedaled. "Not at all, not at all! I'm simply suggesting a partnership."

"A _partnership_ where, uh, you get _ninety-five_ percent of the take… and _I_ get the breadcrumbs. Mm, sounds _tempting_."

Cobblepot was laughing again, though the polish had slipped and I could hear his discomfort under it all. "My good man, given the details of the proposal, I hardly think it's as unfair as you're making it sound."

"No, no, _noo_ —why would you? _You_ stand to gain the most from it, after all." As he spoke, the pressure of the Joker's grip on my back increased, which I took as a cue to look at him.

He tilted his head meaningfully; I immediately leaned back and spoke into his ear. "Need something?" I whispered, conscious that Cobblepot's eyes were now fixed on me and tracking my every move.

Watching our host from the corners of his eyes, the Joker said to me in a whisper that even _I_ could barely make out, "Say something persuasive; let him hear your tone."

I hid my mouth with the back of my hand and leaned into his shoulder, obeying the order with the first spitball of an idea that popped into my head. "If you come to dinner with my parents, I'll give you a blowjob tonight."

I actually felt him shudder in horror at the scenario, the big baby. He turned, literally growling in my ear before actually forming words: "Like I've ever had to _bargain_ for that. Say something else, same tone, one more time."

"You should buy me a new gun and I'll kill someone with it for you. A cop. Yeah?"

He looked at Cobblepot then, and I straightened up and brushed a loose lock of hair away from my throat, not failing to notice that Cobblepot visibly had to reorient his focus from me to the Joker before my partner started speaking: "Five percent," he yielded, "for the _first_ job. Call it a, uh, a trial period. After that, we renegotiate."

Cobblepot held up his hands to signal defeat, then grinned. "How can I say no?" he asked, then leaned forward and stuck out his hand. "We have a deal."

The Joker looked at it like he was being asked to shake hands with a soccer mom, scowled a bit, then reached out and clasped it. Cobblepot pumped vigorously away at the handshake, either oblivious to or completely ignoring the Joker's distaste. "Deal," he repeated, and finally let go. He probably didn't notice J immediately wiping his gloved hand on his pants, since once again, he'd zeroed in on me.

"Dear Miss Quinn," he said, reaching out for me, and though I was also put off by his weird exuberance, I couldn't afford to tip our hand by being standoffish now, so I gave him my hand, which he promptly kissed. "I'm _truly_ glad you came," he said, raising his watery blue eyes to mine. "Please, if you're ever inclined, come by the club, have a drink. I'd be thrilled to see you again."

The Joker stood abruptly, reaching over to pull my hand away from Cobblepot's and draw me to my feet. "Thanks for the invite. We'll take you up on it," he said, playing jealous again. "Now, it's been fun, Ozzie, but I think we'll, uhhh, see our _selves_ out."

"But of course," Cobblepot said, standing along with us and flashing that debonair smile at him. "I'll be in touch, yes?"

"Can't _wait_ ," the Joker assured him, putting his hand on my waist and steering me out of the room.

Contrary to my concerns, the henchmen we'd brought along were standing alive and attentive outside the door, though the big security bouncers standing like military men just a few feet away made me think that if the meeting had started to go sour, my fears may have been completely justified. "We're leaving," the Joker said lowly to our guys, and they fell in line behind us as the Joker escorted me back through the club, through the kitchen, and out into the alley, where George waited with the car. Only once we'd gotten into the backseat and the masquerade was no longer required did he let go of me.

"Keep an eye out for tails, wouldjya?" he instructed George as he lifted his lower half away from the seat and off his coat so he could dig in a back pocket.

"Will do, boss," George said without inflection as he pulled out of the alley and set us on the course home.

Now that we were safely out of the club, I turned towards the Joker and asked, "Can we talk about what just happened in there?"

He'd found what he was looking for in his pocket—a burner phone, one of many. As he settled back down in the seat, he shot me a quick sideways glance before returning his attention to the phone. "Not _yet,_ we can't," he said briefly.

I nearly argued, but I was slowly re-attuning my instincts to the job, and I realized that we weren't exactly alone, so any discussion of potentially sensitive plans wouldn't exactly be the wisest course of action at this date. I looked at the rearview mirror to find that George had just glanced back, his indifferent gaze focused briefly on me, and I grimaced through the mirror at him, rewarded by the sight of the slightest creasing at the edges of his eyes before he looked back at the road.

I hardly thought George was waiting around to betray us, but then, I knew that I was already forming a preference for him, so given my resolution to avoid getting close with the henchmen this time around, it didn't seem wise to argue in favor of his trustworthiness. Not that I knew anything about _that_ , either; I'd only been back for a day.

So, I forced myself to stay quiet for the ride back to the hideout, though it wasn't easy, and if the Joker had been the type to be bothered by fidgeting, I doubt we'd have both made it home. As it was, he ignored me with enviable ease. My impatience must not have gone completely unnoticed, because the second George pulled to a stop outside of our door, he snapped "Follow me," and left the car abruptly.

I scrambled after him. He led the way through the building, ignoring the gathered guys, and I followed exactly two paces behind, all the way up to his room, where he closed the door behind us and finally looked at me. "The hell's going on with you?" he asked irritably as he shrugged his way out of his coat and hung it haphazardly on the rack in the corner. "Ants in your pants?"

"Excuse me for being a little impatient," I retorted without any real sting as I dropped down on the bed and started tugging my boots off. "I want to know why you set things up to make it look like I'm on Cobblepot's side."

He folded his arms across his chest, crossed one ankle over the other, and leaned back against the door, a rather self-satisfied gleam surfacing in his eyes. "Not _on his side_ ," he corrected me casually."Jussst… the weakest _link_." I stared at him blankly for a second before the smile started creeping across my face.

I was hardly oblivious to the fact that people underestimated me. In fact, ever since I started working with the Joker, I actively encouraged it, finding that people were _much_ easier to subdue if they weren't expecting me to pack a hell of a punch (let alone know how to shoot and handle a knife). People's expectations of me had hugely assisted me in my career as Harley Quinn. However, I hadn't ever thought to use those expectations on a grander scale than hand-to-hand combat or the basic grifting needed on a job.

" _Now_ you're getting it," purred the Joker, seeing the light in my eyes, and he pushed away from the door, prowling over towards me as I sat up straighter.

"He thinks I'm a soft touch," I said, thinking back to our little whispered exchange in the middle of their negotiation, fully understanding now why he'd wanted it to look to Cobblepot like I'd encouraged him to take the five percent. "A soft touch with more influence over you than is good for your operation." Cobblepot's staring made more sense now, and I met the Joker's eyes, spotting the malevolently cheerful gleam in them that he only got when he was cheating at the game. "J," I asked, hearing the delight in my own tone and powerless to disguise it, not here, when he was the only one to witness it: "Are you planning on using me as _bait_?"

He loosed a high-pitched cackle, clearly pleased at my less-than-furious reaction. "At _least_ that, for starters," he said impishly. "With any luck, we'll have you up to a double agent in _no time_."

I laughed aloud, flopping back onto the bed, arms stretched out. "Ahh, that's _great_ ," I said enthusiastically. "You think he'll try to convince me that I'm a battered woman and that the only way out is to kill you?"

He paused. "I _hope_ so."

"You could have told me your angle going in," I said, propping myself up on my elbows so I could look reproachfully at him. "I'd have gone full tyrannical-moll."

"No, no, no, _no,_ " he said, stepping over to the bed and taking my chin in his gloved hand, tilting my head up so he could peer right into my eyes. "That woulda tipped the hand, Harley, let him know we were _onto_ him. Don't worry. I saw the way he was lookin' at you. He swallowed the _hook_ , all right."

I beamed at him, and he bent down to press a noisy kiss to my brow before letting me go and stepping away. I bounced lightly on the bed and said, "So should I go visit the club soon?"

"Mmmm," he rumbled thoughtfully as he pulled his pocket watch out and consulted it. "All in good _time,_ Harley, but that's not the _job_ right now."

"What _is_ the job, then?" I asked, and he replaced the watch before meeting my eyes briefly.

"Right _now,_ " he said at length, "the job is sitting tight and waiting for _Pengy_ to get in touch with _us_." He flashed me a quick grin, then pulled the door open and disappeared down the hallway, leaving me hopelessly impatient and excited and _beyond_ ready for the next turn of the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check me out, two updates within one week! Apparently, the way I unwind after a remarkably cluttered and busy week is by holing myself up in my room and working on stuff I haven't had the time to do. Also you guys have been so great and undemanding, I thought it was high time I introduced you to Oswald.
> 
> And on the topic of Oswald-- some time ago, there was a fancast of the late great Philip Seymour Hoffman as Penguin, and I never quite recovered from it. He's definitely able to pull off the face of sophistication with this element of dangerous brutality beneath (check out his performance in The Master, for real), and all in all he's the guy I keep in mind while I'm visualizing Oswald, so there's a tidbit for you. :)
> 
> I had to do some rewrites during the Cobblepot meeting, so if you spot something that seems out of place or simply doesn't make sense, be a darling and point it out? I've proofread but you know how it is, sometimes you're too close to your own writing to spot even the most glaring errors. And... next chapter might be my favorite in the entire story, and it's a whopper at 8k+ words, AND it's all from Joker's POV, so y'all have that to look forward to. Thank you so much to everyone who commented and left kudos, it means the world to me. Till next time!


	12. you can tell by the way I walk things are gonna work out well

_Oh, don't mind me, I'm impossible_  
_I'll rip your heart out and I'll eat it whole_  
_O la la la, baby, say it with me_  
_Yes, yes, yes!_

 **-Foxy Shazam** , _ **Yes! Yes! Yes! ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IzPY7Qvsm_w))**  
_

The Joker blinked suddenly and released a breath he had been holding for… well, he didn't really know how long. It didn't matter.

He'd been sleeping. Or… meditating, maybe, although that didn't really sound like him. The point was that the shadows that routinely flickered in the edges of his consciousness had gotten a _little_ aggressive lately, and he'd intentionally zoned out for a few hours, hoping that when he came back, things in his head would have calmed down.

Tragically, it wasn't so. He'd managed to tune things out for the last hour… or five, but the second he stepped back into his head, the buzzing started again. He blinked a couple of times, lips pursed slightly in displeasure. _Well,_ _ **that**_ _didn't work._ Time to go to Plan B.

It had been… oh, a week since his meeting with the Penguin, which had gone just about exactly as he'd wanted it to. He'd met the guy, gotten a sense for him, set Harley up as a straw girl in a crown, and opened the lines of communication for the future. Oh, and he'd seen for himself why the underworld had nicknamed him _Penguin,_ that had been an equally important goal.

He had, of course, been aware of Oswald Cobblepot's existence almost from the time he had first stuck his head out. He had yet to dig deep into his background—just hadn't gotten around to it—but he knew the basics, which were that dear old Ozzie was, essentially, a sketchy businessman who'd decided that instead of being a businessman-slash- _criminal_ , he wanted things to be the other way around.

Which was fine, _really._ The Joker didn't object to a bit of healthy competition, especially among mob bosses. He'd let Ozzie do what he wanted for a few months—until his sources told him that Batman had been spotted, more than once, in areas where Oswald was pursuing certain criminal activities.

That was when the Joker had decided that they were overdue for a little visit. See, Batman didn't show his ugly mug that much these days, not after he took the fall for Harvey Dent—figuratively speaking, of course—and had been pushed out of that cozy little bed he'd been sharing with Gotham's PD in disgrace. The Joker found the whole thing hilarious, really, except for one thing: the police trying to nab him on sight made it a little harder for Batman to come out and play. Oh, he still _did_ —he couldn't seem to resist that savior adrenaline rush—but his appearances were less frequent, more unpredictable.

As a result, the Joker valued each and every moment the Batman deigned to skulk out of his cave… or knothole, or wherever he sat and brooded while waiting for someone to misbehave and give him the opportunity to play _hero._ Thing was, he didn't like Batman wasting those precious moments on _someone else._ Everyone knew the Joker was top dog in this city, and he had to admit, it was a little hurtful that Bats was apparently worried less about _him_ than a two-bit wannabe gangster shaped like a sack of flour. The Joker hadn't even _seen_ Batman in two months; he was starting to worry that he didn't really _care_ about their relationship anymore.

It was nonsense, of course. He _knew_ he was Batman's one and only. Still, it didn't hurt to make a gesture, which was why he was planning to tie old Ozzie in knots—take care of things so Batman could really focus on _them_ again. Only problem being that in order not to give his plans away, he had to wait for the Penguin to get in touch. Which he hadn't.

The Joker wasn't _bored_ —he was _never_ bored; but he _was_ feeling a bit restless, cooped up in the hideout like this. He sat up abruptly from the bed he found himself in and ascertained that it was dark. _Oh, goody._ He got to his feet and went hunting.

He found her downstairs in the main room. She was alone, stretched out on her side on the overstuffed, cracked leather couch that had been there when they'd moved in, eyes fixed on the widescreen TV that had certainly _not._ He glanced at the screen. She was watching Spongebob. Christ, he needed to teach her some more productive ways to spend her free time.

_Ah, well. No time like the present._

"Hey." She'd noticed him, and he pretended not to see the way her eyes lit up at the sight of his old bones leaning against the doorway. She managed to stay still, although she immediately muted the TV with respect to his sudden appearance.

He squinted at her. "Where are the fellas?"

She hunched her shoulder in a brief shrug. "A couple are back in the rooms sleeping, but most of them were just sitting around, getting restless waiting around for something to do. After fight number… _three_ broke out, I threw some cash at them, told them to go to the damn bar. I hope that was okay."

Well, if she wasn't just a little _mommy._ The Joker always liked watching Harley deal with the henchmen, to the extent of often standing totally back and watching her handle internal conflict. Last time around, she'd adapted a method of alternating between mothering them and bullying them that seemed to keep them both cowed and half in love—it was _funny_ as hell to watch, especially when macho new guys joined up and tried to throw their weight around with her. There were admittedly a few more of those types around than there had the last time she was there, and he'd been looking forward to seeing how she handled herself around them. Thus far, they'd mostly seemed to leave each other alone—Harley especially was keeping pretty much to herself, but he knew it wouldn't last. She liked people too much, and once she started incorporating herself into the group, the fireworks would _really_ start.

He didn't clue her into that line of thought, instead giving her a wry twist of a half-smile as he scuffed across the floor towards her. He could see the pulse in her pretty little neck thumping away fast as he approached, but she remained perfectly still, stretched out and entirely vulnerable. If he ever _did_ decide to just abruptly cut her throat without warning, she would make it _so_ easy for him. He'd have to goad and poke at her instead, make her mad. When she was mad, she fought back, and his little Harley packed one hell of a wallop these days. She was so much _fun_ when she was fighting.

But that wasn't the plan tonight.

Instead, he simply stretched out on top of her, settling his weight onto her, resting his temple against that pulse point and feeling it hammer away— _I'm not dead I'm not dead I'm not dead_ , growing slower and calmer as she turned on her back underneath him and put her arms and legs around him, welcoming the weight instead of trying to escape it. Sometimes, he felt sure that Harley wouldn't mind if he smothered her, provided he did it _this_ way, his body holding hers down as he stole the last breath from her lungs.

She reached up, smoothing his hair back, and after a second, she whispered, "What's wrong?"

The correct answer to that was, of course, _nothing,_ but he didn't bother to say it: she should already know. Instead, he exhaled long and quietly against her throat, mentally spinning the wheel that would decide how they were going to spend their evening.

She smelled clean. She _always_ smelled clean.

It didn't take him long to land on an idea. She'd missed a few things while she was at Arkham, totally deprived of any relevant news, and there were some new habits of his he wanted to let her in on, especially since she'd been so good since her return, her first night back notwithstanding. He caught a silky strand of her hair with his thumb and index finger, and as he rubbed it between his fingertips, he asked casually, "How do you feel about date night?"

It was a rhetorical question—he knew the answer, but he thought the reaction she gave him every single time was funny, so he still bothered to ask. He felt her body go rigid under his, then she asked, "Tonight?" in a tone of doubt so scared and childlike that he almost took the offer back just to justify that tone.

Instead, he grinned against her skin and confirmed it. " _Tonight_. We just gotta get ready, hmm? Plainclothes. You… find something that makes you look… _mouthwatering_. Got it?"

"Got it," she said excitedly, and started trying to struggle out from beneath him, with poor results: he wasn't moving. "J," she huffed, pushing ineffectively at his shoulders, "get _off!_ I have to go change!"

"I have to go _change_ ," he whined mockingly into her ear, cackling at her futile efforts.

She stopped, turned her head, looked him in the eye, and then her legs were locked around his and in a split second, she'd flipped them both over onto the floor. He hadn't exactly been resisting—dead weight more than anything else—but still, he'd forgotten that she was surprisingly strong, even after being out of the game for a while. Maybe he shouldn't have left her in the Asylum so long; _this_ was fun, even— _especially_ —if he was going to have a knot on the back of his head come morning.

She immediately tried to untangle her legs, but he caught her by the hips before she could jump up, digging his fingers sharply into the lean flesh there. She gave a little huff and looked down at him, half-inquiring, half-frustrated, but her eyes were bright and he could see the excitement shining through.

Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last, he stared at her face and saw how _pretty, pretty, pretty_ she was. It wasn't something he thought about a lot—generally, he was more concerned about whether or not people were _interesting_ than if they were _beautiful_ —but _Harley_ , being both, was a special case.

His hands were drifting up and he didn't remember asking them to; they were suddenly clutched around her throat, her loose hair making a barrier between her delicate neck and the rough, acid-chewed skin of his hands. He frowned— _that wouldn't do at all_ —but instead of just clearing the hair away, he opened up his hands, fingertips scraping against her soft cheeks, thumbs brushing against the corners of her mouth.

All that smooth, youthful skin. While the Joker looked years older than he actually was, Harley looked years _younger_ , and he would be lying if he said he wasn't occasionally—okay, _frequently_ —struck with the impulse to take a blade to that fresh face, pucker it up with ugly scars to match his, _really_ stamp her with his ownership.

He wouldn't, of course. Not now, probably never. Scarring her face would defeat the whole _purpose_ : having her pretty face around threw the ugliness of _his_ into stark relief. In that, it made an invaluable point to the people of Gotham: _nobody_ was safe. If her face was as ugly and mutilated as his, they could be dismissed, just a couple of _freaks_ that found each other. With her face clean and intact, and not only that but _pretty_ as well, she was living evidence that he could happen to anyone, even the young, handsome, and respectable.

Knowing this didn't remove the urge to cut her up, but it stayed it, and he helped it along with a couple of effective coping mechanisms. The first was scarring her in other, less grotesque places, as he'd done with the diamonds on her arms—hell, there were some people who'd have _paid_ for what he'd done there. The other… well. That was what he'd be doing _tonight_.

He distantly noted that the exasperated laughter had left her eyes to make room for curiosity, maybe even a touch of worry, but she didn't ask, which was just as well, since he wouldn't have told her what was running through his mind, anyway. Instead, he patted her cheek. "All right, go on."

"About time," she muttered, the worry disappearing from her expression as he let his hands fall away from her. She finished climbing to her feet and deliberately stepped on his stomach on the way out—she didn't dig in enough to really wind him, but it was enough to startle a laugh out of him. _Oh, the audacity!_ After having a little chuckle to himself, he rolled over, getting to his feet and loping along after her at a more leisurely pace. He had a few preparations to make as well.

He was pleased to note as he ascended the stairs that the flickering shadows had fallen back, held at bay for the time being. Looked like date night had been the right idea, after all.

He arrived in their room to find Harley making a racket in the coffin-sized closet. He toyed with the idea of pulling the door closed, hitting the light switch, and holding her in there (he'd done it before; she always yelled out the most interesting threats, it was a real hoot) but decided against it tonight. He was dressed up in distinct Joker attire; he needed to see about finding something less recognizable for the night's events.

Most of his clothes were of the brightly-colored, well-tailored variety he favored for his public appearances, so it took him a little longer than he would have liked, but he finally happened upon the drawer that held the civilian odds and ends roughly in his size that he'd collected with the passage of time. After deliberating for a moment, he stripped off his suit pants, shirt, and vest and replaced them with dark work jeans and a black canvas jacket that he zipped up over his white undershirt, slipping a few necessary tools into the pockets. He finished up by tucking his ragged green hair into a black beanie he'd found under the bed.

Of course, the layman's clothes were useless if he didn't strip off his face, too, so he took himself to the cramped little bathroom. Harley had beaten him there and was standing in front of the sink, carefully applying smoky eyeshadow with the help of the cracked mirror on the wall. He rolled his eyes, wedged himself between her and the wall, and started elbowing her.

"Shit, ouch!" she complained, quickly twisting away from his sharp arms and consequently ending up behind him, outside of the bathroom. He took her place in front of the mirror gladly, reaching for the little bottle of oil she had there. Harley always had baby oil so she could easily remove her makeup. Before her, he couldn't be bothered to keep a practical remover around, usually just scrubbing the shit out of his face with soap and water when he needed to remove his paint, but now that she was around he just used hers. It was easier. Sure, she got mad at him for using half the bottle in one go, but he always tuned her out, and she was starting to catch on to the futility of scolding him.

Though she sure looked pissed _now._ "Mirror hog," she hissed. He shrugged unrepentantly as he slathered the oil across his face, and she turned and flounced back into the room, leaving him in peace.

He found a towel (doubtless her doing; he never could seem to keep them around on his own) and started scrubbing the oil from his face, stripping the makeup off along with it. Piece by piece, the vivid colors were torn away, and after a minute, the Joker was left staring at his own flesh. He brought the towel away from his face, crumpling it up in his palms and tossing it away into the corner, not breaking eye contact with himself the entire time.

It wasn't that the Joker _didn't_ _like_ the sight of his own face. He was a man who thoroughly appreciated some good melodrama, but that particular strain of self-loathing would simply be too easy and too impractical—the paint had to come off most days, after all, if only for him to _shave_. No, he didn't dislike his face, nor was he exactly uncomfortable without the paint, at least not in a way that would lend ammunition against him to anyone that was looking for it.

 _No,_ he thought as he brought his finger up, resting the tip on his left eyeball in the mirror, _the problem is that it just doesn't… feel… right_. He punctuated the thought by dragging his finger down the glass in three stuttering movements, leaving a trail of oil that marred the image and made him feel just a little better. His face without makeup no longer felt like his _natural_ face. It belonged to another time, a time well before all of _this,_ a time he had long ago put behind him with no intention of ever looking back. He figured he couldn't be blamed for feeling a little dissonance, especially dressed like a civilian, with even his hair hidden from view.

But, whether he felt quite himself without the paint or not, the practical fact was that he needed to go without tonight, so without another thought, he straightened up and clicked the light off before heading back into the bedroom.

Harley had finished her makeup through use of a compact and was now pulling on a pair of black heels. The rest of her ensemble was simple: a black skirt—long enough to clear prostitute territory, short enough to still be inviting, more or less exactly what he had in mind—and a long-sleeved, off-the-shoulder top in white cotton, hiding the diamond scars but revealing the straps of the black camisole she wore underneath, the outline of which was clearly discernible beneath the paper-thin material. It was the perfect blend of naïvely innocent (one would _have_ to be to wear something like that on the streets of Gotham after midnight) and alluring, and it was _perfect_ for what he had in mind. As someone who valued the element of presentation, the Joker was a pretty big fan of how Harley could use an outfit to set a specific mood.

She was looking up at him, her eyes asking for some sort of validation, and he perched his hands on his hips and cocked his head. "Now, Harley," he said in a chiding tone, "did you read my mind?"

A slow smile came over her face, almost shy even after all this time. Oh, how she _loved_ any scrap of praise from him. She stood up, rock-steady in her heels, and he saw her scoop up something small from the bed—he recognized it as one of the several knives he'd given her—and slip it past the neckline of her camisole. _Good girl_ , smart enough to know that she shouldn't put all of her trust in him to get her through the night alive. She was growing up.

With a slight flourish, he bowed his head and offered his hand to her. "Shall we?"

"With pleasure," she said, putting her hand in his, and without further ado, he pulled her from the room.

He stopped on the way out of the house and grabbed a keychain at random from the drawer where they were all thrown in together, pressing it into Harley's hand. "You're driving," he told her simply. He _could_ drive with relatively low risk, given that it was dark and they were headed somewhere without much street light, but it was always better if he stayed more or less out of sight. She closed her hand around the keys without comment, he tightened his grip on her, and they left the house.

The night was perfect—the heat of August was finally beginning to die along with the month, leaving the air not too warm, not too cold, and… flat. Tense. The lack of a moon combined with the light from Gotham's skyline obscuring the stars ensured that there was little beauty to be found tonight. The Joker approved.

The keys turned out to belong to some nondescript old clunker. Harley got into the driver's side and started it up with just a little effort, and he joined her on the passenger's side, playing around with the levers beside the seat until he'd pushed his as far back as it could go, accommodating his lanky legs, and leaned the seat back till he was safely below window level. He let out a contented sigh and folded his arms behind his head.

He realized at length that Harley was looking expectantly at him. He knew what she wanted, of course, but he still put on a theatrically surprised look. "Uh," he said, looking around like she might be staring at someone else, " _what_?"

She rolled her eyes, but she was betrayed by the twist of her mouth. She _adored_ him; he knew it well. "You know _exactly_ what," she said, facing forward in an effort to hide her amusement. "Where are we going?"

"Oh. That. Uh—the Narrows."

She forgot about trying to hide and turned sharply to look at him, excitement practically glowing in her eyes. "Really?"

"No, _just_ _kidding_ , I figure we can find more opportunities for fun in the Palisades," he snapped sarcastically. "Of _course_ , really." She was grinning by now, and without any more questions, she put the car in drive. He pillowed his head on his arms again, relaxed, and settled back to enjoy the drive.

He spent a good deal of the ride looking up and out of the window at the buildings of the city as they passed by, but he also kept an eye on Harley, watching as shadows morphed her features into any number of grotesque contortions before a street light would illuminate her face and prove that the fearsome ugliness was just a temporary illusion. As a result of his attentiveness, he saw that she was glancing over at him fairly frequently. It was hardly unusual for Harley to look at him, not as love-struck as she was—half the time, she had him convinced that his face really _was_ something pleasant to her eyes, rather than an interesting aberration.

Still, regardless of what right she thought she had, staring was _rude_. He looked out of his window to lull her into a false sense of security, then, casually, he noted, "Y'know, generally drivers are supposed to focus on the _road_ , not their passengers." He gave it a second, then shot her a sideways glance.

She was staring fixedly out of the windshield, all but ignoring him now and definitely confirming her guilt. He popped his tongue in the corner of his mouth in satisfaction. "Thought so. Penny for your thoughts, _Harley_? What's so interesting tonight?"

She took a second to think about it. She'd done that almost from the time she'd met him, always so wary of making the wrong step—it was part of what made him like her so early on, the wariness that pointed to an appropriate sense of fear combined with obvious fascination… but lacking the usual repulsion. He got the fear a lot, the fascination frequently enough, but he rarely met anyone these days who _wasn't_ repulsed by him. Sure, sometimes she'd been taken aback by things he _said_ , but he never got the impression that she was disgusted by him, not _really_. Quite the opposite, in fact.

She was getting quicker at answering loaded questions; she was talking now after just two seconds of silence: "You just remind me of the way you looked when we met, is all. Except better." She turned her head to flash him a quick smile. "No orange."

Ah. So it was the lack of paint, the weird normalcy that was getting to her. He could sympathize. He tilted his head back against his arms and drawled, "Orange isn't anybody's color, doll."

There was a pause, long and loud enough that he feared that she was about to say something fucking stupid. When she did speak, though, it was to change the subject. "I really missed being out and about in the city," she said softly, peering up through the windshield as they passed through a shadowy, decrepit industrial zone.

Ah, right. Though he knew she'd been in the asylum for a few months, it often slipped his mind—sometimes throughout the summer he'd forgotten about her absence for weeks on end. That reminded him: he had yet to pick her brain about the whole experience. "How _are_ things back at old Arkham?" he asked idly, picking at a stray thread at the knee of his pants. "Cozy?"

She snorted. "It was a learning experience, I'll give you that." He couldn't detect any bitterness in her tone; that was a good sign. Thus far, she didn't seem too mad at him for letting the cops pick her up in the first place—smart, really; if she nursed any resentment it would just do her more harm than anything else. _Live and let live_ , he always said. Well, he'd said it once. Maybe.

"Make any friends?"

She shot him a quick, wry smile. "Not exactly." Returning her eyes to the road, she added, "Turns out that everyone and their mother thinks I'm crazy only because of _you_ , so as you can imagine, my refusal to discuss you with anyone… pissed some people off."

Now, _that_ was interesting. Rolling his head sideways to stare at her, he asked, "Oh, come on, you didn't find _anyone_ to be your confidante? Didn't seek relationship advice during _shower time_ with the girls?"

She rolled her eyes at the suggestion, and as they rolled up to a red light, she turned and met his eyes. "Not a single true word about you. To _anyone_."

Interesting, indeed. Harley was such a chatty little creature, and he knew full well that he was her favorite thing in the _world_ —it must have taken quite a lot of restraint to keep from discussing him with the doctors, the patients, the help… and yet he didn't see a hint of guilt or unease in her eye, and she wasn't quite good enough at disguising her expressions to lie to _him_. He was a little impressed. Even _he_ would understand the temptation to get some revenge on him for letting her go to Arkham in the first place, and the easiest way would be to disclose some petty little secrets. Of course, he wouldn't _react_ well, but he would _understand_. But no. Not a word.

The light turned green and she faced front again, continuing in a lighter tone. "You wouldn't believe some of the lengths they went to in the attempt to get something out of me, though."

"Shock therapy?" he asked hopefully.

She hissed derisively. "They wanted to make me _talk_ , not turn me into a _zombie_. No—you remember David Wilson?"

He thought about it for a second, and when he drew a total blank, he winced. "Y'know," he said, scratching the beanie at the back of his head, "I meet so many _people_ …"

"First doctor you ever had a session with. Sympathetic face."

"Oh. Him."

"Yeah. _Him_. He's running the asylum now, and let me tell you… he is _not_ good at it."

He laughed sarcastically through his nose. "Well, well, color me surprised. What, is _out-niceing_ his patients not working?"

"Apparently not," she said, her tone growing harder, and he noticed that her hands were gripping the steering wheel a bit more tightly than was strictly necessary. He straightened up a little. Well, _this_ was interesting. What did Doctor Davey do to little Harley that made her so uncharacteristically angry with him?

He prodded at the wound. "Say, weren't the two of you friends?"

She laughed, and the bitter edge to the sound confirmed his suspicions. She and old Davey had fallen out in a _big_ way. "Yeah, back when I was an idiot. Being his patient really cleared some things up."

"Such as…?"

"Well, I'll give you an example," she said with sarcastic lightness. "Once, when a session wasn't going well enough for him, he left me in one of those rooms, lights out. After a second, they started piping in… you."

" _Me_?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. He hadn't visited Arkham during the summer… had he?

"Recordings of you," she clarified. "From the sessions we had when we were there, spliced together so it sounded… almost like you were talking to me, right there at that moment." She paused for several seconds, and when she spoke again, her voice was a little shaky, though her expression remained hard and angry. "Completely deprived of any news of you for months, no TV, no newspapers, and then suddenly, sitting in the dark like that, I could _hear_ you, asking me questions, just like you were standing there beside me. It was…"

She stopped abruptly. The Joker saw her mouth twist up in anger or fear or sadness, and since he didn't exactly want to get into a wreck tonight, he reached over and plucked absently at the neckline of her shirt. When she glanced sideways at him, he asked amiably, "Did I tell you that you were pretty?"

She laughed at that, and though the sound was a bit shakier than usual, it was reassuring—she was back with him again. "Maybe. I don't know. I blocked it all out as soon as I realized what was going on."

He leaned back into his seat. "So what'd old Wilson have to say about it next time you spoke?"

"Oh, he denied it. I didn't let him do much more before I throttled him a little bit."

He felt a pulse of sudden, vicious glee. " _Atta_ girl," he said approvingly. "Any permanent damage?"

"They got me with the antipsychotics before I could crush his windpipe," she admitted, sounding genuinely resentful. _Oh_ , did he love Harley when she was bloodthirsty.

"We should pay him a house call soon," he suggested, throwing a little fuel on the fire.

"Good idea. Instead of making him come to us, we'll go to him."

" _Now_ you're talking."

She laughed again, and this time the sound was heartier—which was good, because they were getting into the Narrows by then, and he needed her focused. He straightened up and quietly scanned the area as they drove for a few minutes, looking for someplace ideal. It didn't take him long; he knew the Narrows well—it had been one of his favorite haunts for a long time. Once he'd mapped out a location and a plan in his head, he rapped his knuckles against Harley's neck and pointed. "Three blocks further, two to the left. Park there."

She shot him a glance but said nothing, just complied. His directions took them to an old shoe factory—long burned down, now just a charred skeleton, but there was enough space beyond the mostly torn-down chain-link fence for them to park comfortably. She cut the lights, turned off the engine, and turned to him, awaiting more instruction.

He returned his seat to its upright position and then leaned back to look through the back windshield and check the street beyond their little hiding spot. As he remembered, it was dark and unfriendly, the immediate area lit only by the flickering sign of the only pawn shop brave enough to stay open 24/7 in this neighborhood, the street lights all long-since broken by stray stones or bullets. _And just try to get the city to spare a few nickels for street improvements in the Narrows._

Satisfied, he leaned back and looked at her. "What's the game plan, boss?" she asked on cue, and though the light was insufficient for him to see her face, he heard her quiet excitement loud and clear in her voice. He realized suddenly that they'd never done this together, and he grinned.

"You're in for some fun tonight," he confided, and reached forward to bury his hands in her hair. She remained still, waiting to see what he was doing, and he just ran his fingers through the soft strands several times in succession, making her hair messy and disheveled. "You're gonna want to smear your makeup some," he said helpfully as he pulled back, and she obediently ran the back of her hand across one eye, then the other. In the dark, he couldn't tell quite how much of a mess she looked, but it was just window-dressing, really.

"O- _kay_ ," he said, and opened his door, getting out of the car. She followed, locking the doors behind them—not that it would do much good if a really capable or really determined thief happened along, but the car was hidden well enough and odds were good that their business would be concluded before anyone stumbled upon it.

Once out, he gestured for her to follow him, and she trotted along to his side, looping her arm through his, a mark of affection he tolerated—it was date night, after all. He led the way out of the abandoned lot and to the cracked, pitted sidewalk before pausing again and looking up and down the street.

The spot he'd chosen was fairly secluded, but further along the street, he saw the occasional dark bundle of homeless person sleeping against the wall, and then, further down and spaced out, clusters of dark-clothed people, some walking, some just hanging around at the mouths of alleyways, all in groups. He'd wager that at least one of those groups was just looking for a little fun, and with the way Harley looked…

He gave her arm a little squeeze and turned to look down at her. "Okie-dokie," he said, sounding as chipper as he felt. " _Here's_ what's going to happen. _You're_ going to bring me some of _those_." He pointed a skeletal finger towards the dark figures. "Play it how you want, uhh—drunk _clubber_ trying to find a cab, distraught victim of a surprise breakup, I don't care. Just… make sure they smell _blood_."

She looked up at him, and he wasn't entirely surprised to find that her eyes were shining. She always _did_ like to prey on self-declared predators more than regular joes, a preference that didn't bother him that much—predators were everywhere you looked in this city, and as long as she didn't make the preference into a solid rule, he didn't mind how many thieves and murderers and rapists she felt like killing. All it meant was more blood on her hands, and the more of _that_ , the better.

"Where will you be?" she asked simply.

"I'll find a nice alley a ways up the road," he assured her. "Quiet, dark, out of the _way_ —somewhere we won't be _disturbed_. You just worry about _hooking_ them."

"Whistle when I get close," she said, and turned away and started down the sidewalk.

He stood and watched her for a second. To the best of his knowledge, she'd never done this before, but you couldn't tell by looking at her—she was tottering a little on the very same heels she'd run down stairs and through the house in with perfect balance earlier, and though she wasn't overselling her weaving path, there was enough unsteadiness to make her look like easy pickings. He waited till he heard her sniffle a little, then grinned and crossed the street, ducking into an alley that would take him behind the line of old buildings that bordered the street.

He knew this neighborhood. He wasn't _sure_ , but he thought he'd lived here once… or at least holed up here during one of the numerous times when the heat had gotten a little too intense for his liking. He loped along behind the buildings, swiftly jumped a chain-link fence blocking his path, landed on his feet, and kept moving fast, dropping some coins he'd found in the jacket he was wearing on a blanketed lump of a homeless person bedding down behind an old paper mill without breaking stride. With the unsteady gait Harley had adopted, he was confident that he was making better time than she was, and it wasn't long before he was about a quarter mile down the back way, where he found the perfect alley.

It was dark and private, the brick walls rising up on either side solid and windowless. There was light by which he could work, coming from the dim lantern by the back door of one of the businesses in the loading street he'd just left—the light was behind him and would allow him to see sufficiently forward, but wouldn't illuminate his face to anyone approaching from the front. The street that the alley opened into was empty and as dark as any place _could_ be in the city, and he thought it unlikely that they'd be interrupted. He leaned against the wall in the shadows behind a dumpster and waited.

It wasn't long before he heard the clip of her heels on the sidewalk, more erratic now than when she'd begun, punctuated by men's voices, and he closed his eyes and listened—the voices were a little too hushed for him to make out the words, but the tones were threatening, confident, and he could hear the scuffing of shoes getting closer along with her heels.

Atta girl. He opened his eyes, and as the sound of heels began to echo as she got nearer to the alley, he whistled, two little ' _hello'_ notes—right in time, as it turned out; she'd just stepped into the mouth of the alley, and he leaned his head forward slightly and watched.

She stopped dead and played it off like a champ, looking around in apparent desperation before turning to look into the alley and seeming to make a split-second decision, plunging into the dark. He heard several little whoops of triumph from her pursuers, and she was only five steps into the alley when their shadows appeared at the mouth and they followed her in, faster now.

She'd brought him three—two skinny and strung out, one a hulking skinhead that walked with his chest puffed out, probably the sort that had relied on his size over skill for much too long, a tendency that he would probably rue in the unlikely case that he found the time to. _Ahhh, Narrows rapists and muggers_ —dangle a little piece like Harley in front of them, and it was almost _comical_ how fast they came running. They really were too predictable for their own good, too confident that they were untouchable in their own neighborhood. If the only thing they had to be afraid of was the cops, they'd have been right: the Narrows was so overrun with crime that the police were practically scared to set foot in it, at least unless they had an excuse to go en masse.

Unfortunately for them, the Joker wasn't the cops.

He stepped out from behind the dumpster, and Harley ran right for him. Showing a glimmer of brains, the trio of thugs following her paused, but the glimmer faded as they looked amongst themselves and decided they could handle the hiccup in the plan.

Harley, staying in character like a pro, wailed, "Mister! Mister, please help me!" She sounded like she was really crying, and he felt a little seed of pride flowering in his chest as she ran up and ducked behind him. He didn't speak yet, just eyeing the trio of miscreants as they drew up short about five feet away. He measured them up now that they were a little closer—one was much too big, the other a smidge too little, but the one on the left was promising: around the Joker's size, looked white in the dim light… things were working out beautifully.

"Walk away, man," said out the little one in the middle to a chorus of snickers from his wingmen. "This doesn't concern you."

The Joker theatrically turned his head to look at Harley, who was sniveling behind him—well, _snickering_ , really, but _they_ wouldn't be able to tell. He looked back at them and, casually and unthreateningly, he said, "Oh, I'm sure it doesn't take all _three_ of you to walk a girl home. I mean, even in a neighborhood like _this_ , that's _over_ kill, right?"

The little guy took a threatening step forward, and, with over-practiced machismo, he lifted his sweatshirt up clear of his sagging pants, where a pistol caught the glint of the light shining from behind the Joker. "Walk away, or we'll give _you_ a taste of what we had planned for _her_ ," he said in what was doubtless his toughest tone.

It was his fault, really, going for the threat instead of the kill. Now, The Joker was bored. With the speed that came from regular, practical habit, he drew the suppressed pistol from the holster hidden by his jacket, and with one sharp, pressurized _pfft_ of air he'd put a bullet right through the little guy's throat.

"Fuck, fuck, shit," blurted the one on the left, fumbling immediately at his own waist, but the Joker dropped his gun, lunged forward, and seized his hand right as it landed on the hilt of the pistol there, twisting it up and applying brutal pressure. He felt the bones give and crack under his grip, and the thug let out a gratifying screech of pain. The Joker dropped the hand, pulled the gun from the guy's pants and dropped it to the pavement as well, then grabbed his quarry by the throat and shoulder and threw him against the brick wall hard enough that his skull made a gratifying crack.

The big guy either didn't have a gun or forgot to draw it in his sudden confusion. Showing that glimmer of brains again, he turned and ran.

The Joker, still holding his guy pinned against the wall, glanced over his shoulder. "Harley."

She didn't need anything else. Like a shot, she bolted after the guy. He didn't make it five steps before she crashed into his back knees-first, and the Joker knew firsthand that when Harley wanted to take you down, it took incredible willpower to stay upright. As hefty as the guy was, he went face-first to the pavement.

The Joker cackled. "Guess it's true what they say about _the_ _bigger they come_ ," he said to the guy he was holding against the wall.

"Please—please," blubbered the guy, and then caught sight of the half of the Joker's face illuminated by the back light and let out a strangled groan as recognition hit. "Oh, Jesus! Not _you_! _Fuck_!"

"Shhh," the Joker admonished. "I wanna see this." _Telling_ people to shut up didn't always work, but the guy's sudden terror combined with the Joker's tightening grip at his throat rendered him temporarily mute except for low whimpering and panting, and the Joker took advantage of it. He turned to watch Harley work.

The guy had rolled violently over, throwing her off of him, but as the Joker watched she dove back onto him, taking a flailing fist to her gut for her trouble. She let out a pained "oomph," but didn't fall back, blocking the following fist with an elbow. The big guy then decided that the fastest way out of this was to go for the throat, and he actually got his hands around her neck, but that was his mistake—it left _her_ hands unoccupied, and the Joker felt a tingle of anticipation as he heard her let loose a choked whisper: "Rapist _fuck_."

Her back was blocking his view, but he could tell by the wet gurgle that immediately followed that Harley had cut his throat, and deep too, from the sound of it. No matter how many times he saw her kill—and in his defense, the number was _much_ smaller than he thought it should be—he felt the familiar dizzying sense of glee that came with the reconciliation the meek little therapist with the bruised throat he'd met that first day with the ball of energized fury that followed him into battle like a zealot, the knowledge that it was all _his_ doing. He felt the need to share, and turned to his own target with a glowing grin. "Now, _that's_ the sorta girl you want to take home to Mother," he confided.

"Oh, God, please, _help me_ ," groaned the guy.

The Joker gave him a mockingly concerned squint. "Uhm. Y'know, I don't claim to be up on this sort of thing, but last I heard, the big guy upstairs doesn't really give handouts to guys who follow little girls into dark alleys."

" _Help_!" shrieked the guy, either seeing the sense in the Joker's words or finally growing desperate enough to try to call for aid in the middle of the Narrows. The Joker knew it wouldn't do any good, but still, no need to take chances.

He clapped one hand over his victim's mouth with bruising force, getting into his face and hissing, "Shhhh, shush shushshush. Calm down. I'm not gonna kill you."

He could tell the guy didn't believe him, so he didn't lift his hand. By that point, Harley had rejoined them, looking disgruntled. "I got rapist blood all over my shirt," she said, lifting the hem of her formerly-white top to show the spattered bloodstains across the bottom.

"Aww," the Joker said, clicking his tongue in sympathy. "Here. Watch. I've got somethin' that'll make you _feel_ better." She raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the promise, and took a step back and folded her arms, signifying that he had her attention.

The Joker returned his focus to the cockroach he had pinned against the wall. Leaving one hand crushed painfully across the guy's mouth, he reached into his pocket with the other, coming up with one of his favorite knives. The click of the switchblade popping out and locking in place freaked the guy out; he started struggling and screaming fruitlessly. The Joker didn't see the point—without his posse, he was no more than a weak-armed junkie, and muffled by the Joker's hands, his screams wouldn't go far.

The Joker removed his hand, and the guy drew breath for what would doubtless be one hell of a shout, but the hand was replaced almost immediately by the switchblade, pressed into the corner of his mouth, and all that air came gusting uselessly and fearfully out of his lungs all at once.

"There. _That's_ better," the Joker said.

His prey's eyes were fixed on him in animal fear now, and he'd gone perfectly still, clearly thinking that his odds were better if he stayed frozen and silent, as if the Joker's perception depended on movement. He wasn't so fortunate, but if it kept him pliable and cooperative, the Joker wasn't going to tell _him_ that.

He pressed the knife against the corner of the mouth where it rested, not hard enough to cut, just testing the resilience of the skin there. The guy's eyes tracked his face, but the Joker didn't bother to return the stare, glancing over his shoulder at where Harley was standing tiptoe and watching in interest. "See, Harls, I started playing a little _game_ while you were gone. It doesn't really have a title…" He clicked his tongue thoughtfully and added, "I was kind of toying with _Will the Real Joker Please Stand Up_."

His knuckles tightened around the hilt of the knife and he _pushed_. The blade cut through the corner of the guy's mouth and into his cheek like butter, and he slipped it out before it got too far, flicking a spray of blood against the back wall with it. The man _squalled,_ a guttural, piglike sound, and his knees buckled, but the Joker seized his thinning hair and jerked him back upright, doubtless liberating some strands in the process.

"Aaaaand one _more,_ " he said, all business, and it took a steady hand with the way the guy was thrashing around, getting blood all over the Joker's face and jacket, but he was old hat at this by now, inserting the blade in the undamaged corner of his mouth and repeating the motion with little effort. The guy screamed so hard he ran out of breath, the sound ending in a rough stutter, and the Joker released him and let him sink down to the alley floor.

"There, you see, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked, propping his hands on his hips and looking down disapprovingly at the newly-marked scumbag.

The guy coughed, spraying blood on the Joker's jeans, and the Joker tsked disapprovingly. "I tell you, people are _so_ rude these days," he muttered, reaching down and patting at his sobbing victim's pants and then finding what he wanted in the pocket of his hoodie.

He straightened up, glanced over his shoulder at Harley, whose hands were covering her mouth, eyes wide in disbelief, and signaled with his index finger that she should wait a second. He turned back around, looked down at the phone he held in his hand, and dialed 911.

After waiting patiently for an answer, he said, "Ahh… we need an ambulance off of Roseland Street, in the Narrows. In the alleyway beside that old shut-down costume place. Someone's bleeding… _badly._ Pretty sure I saw some _clowns._ "

He hung up, then dropped the phone on the pavement. His victim wasn't making much noise now, just a gargled sob every now and again, but he wasn't worried—he hadn't cut him _nearly_ as far or as deep as he'd cut Gambol; provided the paramedics didn't hem and haw about going into the Narrows like _chickenshits_ and got to him before he bled out, he'd survive.

The Joker turned to Harley, whose hands were down away from her mouth now, her eyes shining, and this time, he _offered_ her his arm, flashing her a grin as she stepped forward without hesitation. "Come on, baby. Let's _get_ while the gettin's _good_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, those crazy kids. Gotta love 'em. That Joker sure knows his way to a girl's heart, killing and mutilating rapists. (For the record, he'd be just as happy- if not more so- cutting into your average everyday tourist, but predators are easier to find in the dark.)
> 
> I am ridiculously partial to this chapter, though- getting into the Joker's head and finally finding out how he feels about certain things (scars on Harley, his own face, etc) was a really fun exercise. I mean, plotwise this is straight-up filler but in terms of character I think it was moderately important. That shit's fun. (On the topic of the asylum recordings? That memory's skipped off elsewhere right now in the Joker's brain, but if I remember right it'll come up again later. Just not important to him tonight. Maybe the shadows ate it.)
> 
> Date night's not over yet! Next chapter takes us back to Harley's POV, and the Joker introduces her to... someone. Someone I think you guys are going to be happy to see. Now, I've got work to get to tonight, so I'm off. Y'all drop me a line to tell me what you think about all this mess, and have a fabulous weekend!


	13. don't get soft on me

_I don't want a sweetheart, sweetheart,_  
_I want a machine!_  
_I love you the most, I do,_  
_When you're so close to me I can smell the gasoline_

 **-The Dead Weather,** _**Gasoline ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AesEA-U4GAU))** _

Despite the impending emergency vehicles and the groups of bums and gang members still studding the street, the Joker took us out of the alley the front way. I needn't have worried. No one bothered us. In fact, they seemed to be going out of their way to avoid looking at us. Maybe it was the screams that had preceded us from the alley; maybe it was the fact that we were both spotted and sprayed with blood. Either way, no one tried to stop us.

My whole body was buzzing by the time we reached the car, and not just at the effortless escape. I couldn't quite believe what had transpired, the brilliance of it all. Not only were two rapists dead (and I _knew_ they were rapists, unless the filthy threats they'd been muttering as they tracked me were all talk and no action, which seemed unlikely given that they'd all but _jumped_ at the chance to corner me in an alley), but another bore scars matching the Joker's—and I realized as I thought about it that he was similar in build to the Joker, too.

The implications of what I'd just witnessed were dizzying, and as we reached the car and he circled around to the passenger's seat, I looked at him over the top and demanded, "How many times have you done that before?"

"Uh…" he said, climbing in the car, and I followed suit. "Four? Or… seven." He waved a dismissive hand as I turned the key in the ignition, and with a few huffing protests, the engine turned over. "I kinda lost track. It doesn't matter."

"I thought you didn't like imitators," I said, pulling away from the old factory and beating one hell of a path out of the Narrows.

" _Imitators_? No," he said, eyes rolling up in thought as he tongued at the corner of his mouth. "Now, _decoys…_ " He glanced at me out of the corners of his eyes, and I beamed at him. _Of course._ Without the paint, the scars were the only thing to set him apart from Adam in the eyes of average Gothamites, and the more men that looked vaguely like him bearing similar scars, the less certain anyone could be of who exactly they were seeing when one walked down the street. Of course, there would be those who didn't care either way, but I wasn't exactly going to shed tears for a guy who was about three seconds away from jumping me with his buddies.

As I started navigating my way off the island, the Joker abruptly said, "Head towards the southeastern bridge. We're stopping in Cobble Hill."

I shot him a startled glance. It was after 3 AM at this point and we were covered in blood to boot; I'd been fairly certain that we were on our way home. Still, I didn't question him. I silently rerouted the car towards Cobble Hill.

The drive there was peaceful. I spent it keeping us at least several blocks away from the nearest siren sound; J spent it leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, thinking or resting or meditating—I had no way of knowing. It wasn't until we reached the neighborhood that he made a sound, and only then to tell me to turn left without opening his eyes. I obeyed, playing along in large part out of curiosity to see where this was going.

A few more directions had us parked essentially beneath Calvary Bridge, and the Joker still wasn't offering any explanations as he smoothly ducked out of the car. I scrambled out behind him, figuring that if I was supposed to stay, he'd let me know, but he said nothing, whistling as he led the way across the street to an apartment building beyond.

It was nicer than the crumbling housing projects with boarded-up windows, but it was hardly uptown Gotham—stairs crawled up and around the brick building, leading to access-from-the-outside doorways, and it was to one of these on the second story that the Joker led me. I stood behind him on the narrow little balcony as he rapped cheerily on the door, arms crossed over my chest—it was late August and not exactly _cold,_ but the night was growing old and I was wearing a skirt that fell above the knee; the slight chill was starting to eat at me.

The Joker kept knocking relentlessly away until a faint, annoyed shout came from inside: " _Stop_ that, you thickheaded _barbarian_! For God's _sake,_ it's three in the morning!"

The Joker, true to form, simply kept knocking at the same rate until the door was suddenly flung open and he was brought face to face with a device that wasn't a welcome bouquet. "Hiya, Eddie," he said, completely unfazed.

The man in the doorway lowered the device, though he kept it leveled at his hip. "I'll have you know I was a split second away from sending nineteen million volts through your body, and rest assured the amperage behind them is sufficient to make that _mean_ something."

"Lucky for _you_ , you've got better impulse control than that," said the Joker, and pushed past him into the apartment, leaving our new host and me to regard each other.

Eddie was a thin man, shorter than the Joker but still a fair bit taller than I was, with carrot-red hair that was creeping back from the sides of his forehead and stuck out in all directions. He looked like he was probably somewhere in his thirties, with narrow features, slightly crooked teeth, freckles dotting his face (all faded, presumably from lack of sun in recent days—he was very fair-skinned), and deep-set green eyes that were fixed suspiciously on me. Despite the hour and the gray sweats and green t-shirt that clung to his narrow frame, he didn't look the least bit sleepy—even the hair looked less like bedhead and more like he'd just been running his hands through it for a few hours. All in all, he didn't look the least bit like the usual brute force the Joker usually associated with, and so I was _very_ curious as to what we were doing at this man's home in the wee hours of the morning.

He had sized me up as well, and his eyes narrowed as he said, "You are, quite clearly, the recently-escaped Miss Quinzel."

I eyed him thoughtfully, then said, "I _do_ have a doctorate."

"Oh, well, I'm sorry for you. _Doctorates_ are for those who crave validation of their intelligence from so-called _higher institutions_. I never wasted my time."

My eyes widened in disbelief. I'd never met a _single_ person who managed to sound so superior about their _lack_ of formal education. Eddie was apparently finished with me, turning to follow the Joker inside. I trailed after him and closed the door, wondering who exactly this guy thought he was and _why_ the Joker hadn't killed him yet.

The inside of the apartment was… well, given the limited conversation we'd had, I suppose it shouldn't have surprised me that the place looked like a combination of a library explosion and a hacker's nest. It was hard to find a free spot on the floor between the stacks of books, paper, and various black boxes spouting wires, and the furniture seemed limited to a desk and chair, two work tables, and an oversized couch.

It was on this last that the Joker had plopped down, feet up and legs stretched out to take up the whole thing. Eddie looked at him and his thin shoulders slumped in immediate frustration. "Oh, by all means, make yourself at home. Never mind that I _just_ got the bloodstains from your _last_ visit out," he grumbled, picking his way across the room to his computer chair, where he sat and swiveled so that he could keep an eye on the Joker.

"Aww," drawled the Joker, eyes lit up in a way that I knew from experience signified malevolent amusement more than amused malevolence (and the distinction was an important one). " _surely_ a little _elbow grease_ is worth, ah, the _pleasure_ of my company. Or…" He glanced pointedly around the cramped, wrecked room which clearly hadn't seen a soul other than its inhabitant in days, if not weeks—"well, _any_ company, really." He narrowed his eyes sympathetically. "Y'know, I _worry_ about you, Eddie. You been getting out enough?"

"If _you_ are representative of what awaits me when I _get out_ , then I much prefer to stay in—a choice rendered moot, might I add, by your _insistence_ on coming to my home. And _this_ time you brought a henchperson along," he added, shooting an annoyed look at me, "so _thank_ you, really, for showing the other criminals of Gotham where I live. Although, of course, going by her track record, she's not nearly as bloodthirsty or as dangerous as you are, so I owe you some grudging gratitude for that, I suppose."

The Joker glanced over the back of the couch to where I was standing beside the entryway. "Harley? Want to respond to that?"

I shrugged and pointed to the opposite wall, which was entirely covered in maps, photos, and various papers, with string dissecting and connecting them in one big complex web. "I'd say that's rich talk for a guy whose house looks like the lair of every serial killer in modern cinema." Eddie shot me a glare, and I shrugged at him. "Either that or the guy that _catches_ the serial killer. Give me five more minutes and I'll let you know which one I've decided."

The Joker laughed. "I _knew_ the two of you would get along," he said with sarcastic fondness, and brought his feet to the floor, sitting up abruptly. " _So._ Eddie. You're good with the _questions_ , right? So why don't you tell me—why am I _here_?"

Eddie actually seemed to take a question that, posed to anyone else, would have been intimidating in stride, slowly swiveling his chair back and forth as he looked from me to the Joker and back again. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat and said, "Well, clearly you're not here to insist on asylum, thankfully. If it was just _you_ that was covered in blood, I might have cause to worry, but given that she's bearing a blood spatter pattern consistent with close-range arterial spray, I'd say it's more likely that the two of you have been out on some…" he gestured aimlessly, " _murder date_ —and I _don't_ want the details on that," he said sharply as both the Joker and I opened our mouths to clarify.

"No… given our past transactions and the fact that you met with Oswald Cobblepot one week ago, I think you're here because you want some _real_ background on Cobblepot, the kind that includes the things he thinks he's buried." His gaze fell unswervingly on the Joker, and after a second, his face split into a pleased grin. "I'm right, aren't I? Of course I'm right."

"You're quite the little detective," the Joker allowed, though his tone was so sodden with mockery that there was no way anyone could take it as a compliment.

Eddie didn't seem to care. He rotated back around to his desk and grabbed a thin stack of folders that sat there. "Fortunately for you, I'm _always_ right, which means I foresaw this and did the research in advance. You pay me, you get your files, you get out of my apartment, and everybody's happy."

The Joker stood abruptly and prowled over to where Eddie sat, somehow managing to piece together an easy path through the mess on the floor without looking stupid. Watching, I was somewhat gratified to see that Eddie's bravado seemed to shrink with each step the Joker took towards him—his shoulders began to slump slightly; he fidgeted in the chair and finally brought his knees slightly up as if they could make some sort of adequate barrier between them. The Joker paused a few inches in front of him, then, without a word, snatched the folders from his hand, leaned against the desk beside him, and started thumbing through them.

Eddie looked like he desperately wanted to say something, but for the first time that night, he managed to hold his tongue—might have had something to do with the fact that he was now easily in the Joker's stabbing range. J, for his part, studied one page intently, sucked at the inside of a scar, and said, as if there _hadn't_ been a minute-long pause in the conversation, "I'm not gonna let that hurt my _feelings,_ Eddie, cause, uh, I _know_ why you're being so callous."

Eddie released a long exhale and buried a hand in his thinning hair. "Dear God. For _once_ , I regret what I just said; now can we skip whatever absurdity _you're_ about to spew in response?"

The Joker looked up on him, one corner of his mouth twisted in a crooked half-smirk. "You're afraid of _intimacy_."

"There it is," Eddie mumbled.

I snickered as the Joker leaned over him and he hunched back, but something on the opposite wall caught my eye. I picked my way across the room and took a closer look at Eddie's serial killer wall.

 _Pennington._ I knew the name—he was Pam's first victim. There on the wall was the article written after his autopsy had revealed the traces of the poison she'd used—I'd seen it before; I'd anxiously read every article I could get my hands on until the investigation finally seemed to fizzle out. The question was _why was Eddie interested?_

The end of a red string was tacked to the article, and I followed it across the board, where the other end was attached to another headline. My stomach dropped when I read it.

It was an article about Pam's disappearance in Egypt, and I felt panic and disbelief rising in my throat. _What the hell? How could he possibly have connected the two?_ I glanced rapidly over my shoulder, but Eddie was busy being intimidated by J and wasn't paying attention to me.

Rapidly, I looked back at the board and looked to see how those articles related to everything else. I started calming down just a little as I saw that there were quite a few articles involving violent mysteries like Pam's trip to Egypt, most connected by thread to some other apparently unrelated headline. _Okay, so it looks like this is a little bit of a hobby for this guy. And since he's working with J, it's unlikely that he would rat Pam out to the cops, even if he did know for certain what she was doing._ Still, I wasn't comfortable that he'd apparently discovered the link. If he saw something implicating Pam, then who else might?

I'd need to bring it up as soon as she started speaking to me again, see what she wanted to do. I absently reached to smooth a stray bit of string away from the headline it was blocking, but Eddie's sharp voice stopped me: " _Don't_ touch that!"

I glanced over. The two of them had frozen mid-movement at Eddie's shout; Eddie was pressed tightly against the back of the chair, his body language screaming defensiveness, and the Joker was hunched over him, hands planted on the top of the chair back beside Eddie's head. He'd clearly been doing something along the lines of threatening him, and now looked vaguely surprised at Eddie's poor survival instincts if he was putting the wellbeing of his weird wall above his own.

"Sorry," I said reflexively. "If it makes you feel better, though, I'm pretty sure you're the guy who _catches_ the serial killers."

Eddie was visibly upset at this point, though I wasn't sure if it was due to my meddling or fear of the Joker. He glanced up at J, hovering over him, took a second to collect himself, and then, his voice much steadier, he said, "I would _very_ much appreciate it if you took the files and left. I have a lot of work to do."

The Joker released the chair and straightened up. " _Sure_ ," he said, curling his hand into a loose fist and making a brief jerking-off motion; " _work._ " However, he relented, turning and collecting the files from where he'd set them on the desk.

Eddie's arrogance had sapped from him, leaving him looking smaller. I felt an unexpected pang of sympathy, even though he'd brought it on himself, talking to the Joker like that. I picked my way back across the room, pausing in front of him, and he looked up at me warily.

"I like your place," I told him. "Lots of interesting stuff to look at."

He snorted. "Well, there damn well should be," he said, but despite the brush-off, he looked a little heartened.

The Joker closed the folder and tucked it under his arm, looking up at us. "Well. I guess we'll be going, then—if, ah, you're _sure_ you don't want the company, Eddie."

"Absolutely certain," Eddie said flatly.

The Joker clicked his tongue. "All _right,_ then. Harley?"

"See ya," I said to Eddie, getting a grumble in response, and I followed the Joker out of his apartment and back to the car.

He took a second to tuck the folder safely into the glovebox, giving me the opportunity to ogle him a little bit. I'd been so busy all night I hadn't really had the time to appreciate this rarity—the Joker, makeupless and in street clothes, even his distinct hair tucked away. With the black beanie, black army jacket clinging tight to his bony frame, and the heavy purple shadows under his eyes usually obscured by the paint, he looked less like Gotham's clown prince of crime and more like a particularly handsome junkie.

He also looked years younger. Not that he looked _old_ in full gear as the Joker—ageless more than anything else- but the costume brought his innate power out, made it a focal point and made him seem distinctly authoritative, someone you instinctively knew not to mess with. Without all that…

Well. He was still scary—it was in the way he held his shoulders, the way his eyes cut unexpectedly into you, but it was easier to see more than just the monster, especially when he was silent like this.

Of course, good things always come to an end. He caught me staring for the second time that night and turned, fixing me with an inscrutable look. "Uh. We gonna stay here all _night,_ or…"

I knew he wasn't thrilled when I did this, just gazed at his unpainted face—he denied feeling any sort of discomfort or anxiety when he went barefaced, and he might even have been telling the truth, but I knew he had his preference, and the more people who never saw anything but the lurid paint, the happier he was. Rather than being an exception to that rule, for all the many reasons I _should_ be, it seemed to apply _double_ to me, so I didn't think I could be blamed for looking when I got the chance.

However, it was probably prudent to disguise it as something else. I grinned at him and walked closer, seeing him roll his eyes as he realized what I was doing but choosing to ignore it. I put my arms around him, looked up, and crooned, "I had a _wonderful_ time tonight."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said dismissively, looking past me to check and ensure the road was clear.

"You're the best boyfriend _ever_."

That got a chuckle out of him. He glanced down at me, narrowed his eyes, and said, "Tryin' to soften me up?"

"Saying _thank you._ And you're good-looking. And I love you."

" _Definitely_ trying to soften me up," he commented dryly, but he didn't push me off when I put my arms around his neck and pressed my mouth softly and briefly to his.

I didn't push my luck by lingering, though. I let him go, took a step away, and pulled my bloodstained top over my head, stripping down to the camisole underneath.

J glanced theatrically over his shoulder, then squinted at me. "Now? _Here_?"

I stuck my tongue out at him. "That wasn't what I had in mind, but if you're offering…"

" _Tempting_ , but we really _should_ be going. I wouldn't put it past Eddie to call the cops outta _spite_."

"Fine with me. I'm only ditching the shirt cause I want to hit up the McDonalds drive-through and grab a milkshake, and it's all bloody."

The Joker stared. I raised my eyebrows defensively. "What? You can keep your face turned away, but I'm starved. Killing rapists drums up one hell of an appetite, and anyway, in case you haven't noticed, I'm about ten pounds underw—"

The rest of that sentence disappeared into a squeak when he grabbed me by the elbow and jerked me towards him, kissing me a good deal harder than I'd kissed _him_ —I'm not sure if it was because hearing me talk about murder really got him going or because he was trying to shut me up, but I reciprocated gladly. It didn't last long, both of us still aware of the possibility of impending danger, and when he let me go, it was with a nip to the bottom lip sharp enough to cut the skin. "Drive," he told me, and, the taste of blood on my tongue, I obeyed.

I wasn't kidding when I told him I wanted a milkshake. I asked him before we entered the drive-through if he wanted one, only to receive the stunningly unhelpful response of "Uhh—orange and chocolate. In layers."

"Sweetheart, I'm like ninety-nine percent sure they just throw all the ingredients in a cup and blend the shit out of it, so layers aren't gonna happen," I told him, refraining from pointing out that they'd discontinued their orange flavor, since that seemed like asking for trouble. He sighed, and I told the speaker box that we just wanted one vanilla and one chocolate instead.

Without being asked, he turned on his side and faced the other side of the car, looking no more threatening than your average sleeping passenger, the blood on his jeans invisible in the dark. Everything actually went well until the girl at the second window was handing over the milkshakes: he suddenly sat up, reached over me, and grabbed the second one from her hand instead. He looked her directly in the eyes, grinned, and said, "Hey, thanks!"

She turned as white as a sheet, and I didn't stick around to see more. As the Joker whooped with laughter, I peeled out of the parking lot. Once we were safely around the corner, I tried my damndest to glare at him, but it was impossible—he was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes, and without the paint the laughter wasn't so much terrifying as infectious. I found myself grinning reluctantly even as I said, "I cannot _believe_ you did that."

"Oh," he gasped, resting a hand on his stomach as he tried to recover, "ohhh, Harley. Did you see her _face_?"

"Dork," I said, but he was so clearly happy I couldn't help but grin. "Drink your milkshake."

After that, the ride home was mostly silent. The sky was growing lighter, we were tired and content and we each had a milkshake to work on. We reached headquarters just as the sun was starting to rise, and as soon as I parked, J got out and went around to the back of the car, stooping there.

I joined him, watching with interest. He'd taken a knife to the license plate and was prying it out of its bed. Puzzled, I said, "I'm pretty sure she was too scared to poke her head out of the window and get the number."

"Maybe _so_ ," he said casually, wrenching the plate off, "but these days in Gotham, even Mickey D's is set up for CCTV. Won't hurt to play it safe."

"I'm _positive_ that's the first time I've ever heard that sentence come out of your mouth."

He snorted as he finished up. Apparently, the extent of his caution was limited to removing the plate—once it came free, he slapped it up on top of the car for the next person to use it to deal with. Then, in a move that told me the night had put him into an astoundingly good mood, he turned, hunched, and gestured to his back. "Come on."

He didn't have to tell me twice. I jumped on his back immediately, securing my arms around his neck as he looped his under my legs. I nestled up close to his neck, he took a sip from the straw of the milkshake I still held, then he carried me inside.

The henchmen were back. Several were strewn around on the floor, most of the rest I imagine were asleep in the back rooms, but a few were still awake, drinking and playing cards in the main room. The Joker paused in the doorway, adjusting his grip on me, and cocked his head, asking, "Any news?"

Ace, after double-taking, took it upon himself to answer. "None, boss."

The Joker nodded and turned away, and I will not admit to making a face at Ace over my shoulder before he carried me from the room. That would just be childish.

It wasn't until he was depositing me in the bed that I realized how tired I was, but even as I yawned, I was reaching for him. He said, "Ah, ah, ah," disapprovingly, though, removing his clothing from my grasp. "Don't get _greedy,_ Harley. You've had enough of me for one night, don't you think?"

"You know full well I _never_ think that," I told him, but I couldn't bring myself to sulk, not with how wonderfully not-mercurial he'd been the whole evening. I kicked my heels off and shimmied out of my skirt as he ditched the jacket, and as I climbed beneath the blanket, yawning again, I asked, "You planning to sleep at all tonight?"

"Go to sleep, Harley," he said in lieu of answering, disappearing into the bathroom. I turned over and obeyed.

* * *

The last week had been at once utterly uneventful in the grand scheme and, for me, unusually busy on the smaller scale. Given that I was used to the boredom at Arkham, it was a little overwhelming being pitched back into the Joker's world and expected to catch right up. There was a lot to do, and I was actually glad the Cobblepot scheme wasn't proceeding immediately—it gave me a chance to get back in touch with the way things worked.

The most immediate task at hand was to get back into fighting shape. I spent a good deal of time working out muscles that had been sadly underused for months—in addition to the shitty food, the exercise situation at Arkham was practically nonexistent, and there's only so much you can do in the limited expanse of a cell, so despite a regular routine of pushups, crunches, and the like, things were still fairly dismal. Fortunately, muscle memory was on my side, as far as my training routines went, and it took only a few days for me to stop feeling like I was going to actually die after every workout. I was fairly confident that if I kept it up, I'd be back to my old self in no time.

The actual _fighting_ part of getting into fighting shape… well, that was trickier. All my old sparring partners were either dead or gone, with the exception of J, and I didn't exactly want him seeing how rusty I'd gotten. I knew I needed work, but there was only so much you could do alone, and I was hesitant to ask complete strangers who may or may not be prejudiced against me already for their help. I definitely wasn't asking Ace, who would welcome the chance to be responsible for me having a "training accident," and as capable as I was certain George was, I felt weird about the idea of us knocking each other around the sparring room.

Fortunately, I got to know Spider.

Just a few days after the initial meeting with Cobblepot, I was in the kitchen, trying to decide with my limited options whether a pickle sandwich would be worth trying, when a henchman came flying in from the back rooms. It was the tattooed black guy from my first day back, the one who had taken my advice about Julie Andrews. His eyes fell on me, and as I tilted my head questioningly, he held up a grenade and blurted, "This shit's ticking."

It took me just a split second to realize how many explosives we had stockpiled just a few rooms away. I bolted forward, snatched the grenade out of his hand, and was out of the front door in moments. I vaguely registered that he was following, right on my heels, but at that moment I was focused on getting the grenade as far away from the house as possible. I ran as far down the street as I dared before the fear of getting my face blown off overwhelmed my fear of the Joker and everyone else being killed in a house-wide explosion, and then I stopped, wound back, and chucked the thing as hard as I could.

It arced through the air, and I waited breathlessly until it landed in an out-of-use lot a few dozen yards away, clattering a few more feet before coming to a stop. By that point, the henchman arrived beside me, and we stood waiting breathlessly for about thirty seconds. When the thing showed no sign of exploding, I ventured, "I guess it was a dud."

"I guess so," he said. "Quick thinking."

"Eh," I said noncommittally, trying to catch my breath. "When the guy you love is just upstairs in a house packed full of C4 and gasoline, getting the ticking grenade as far away from him as possible becomes instinct."

He snorted. "I'll have to keep that in mind. Make sure not to fall in love with a guy. I'm Spider, by the way."

"Harley," I said, shaking the hand he offered. I noted his heavy scarring, not only on his tattooed knuckles but also the more linear ones on the back of his hands and forearms, and I looked up at him in interest. "You don't happen to knife fight, do you?"

He did, and although initially hesitant to agree to get rough with the boss's girlfriend, I wore him down over the next day or two with a combination of threats, dares, and just plain nagging. He was good, too, had reach to his advantage since he was roughly 6'2, and it was a given that he was way stronger than I was. I was delighted and frustrated in equal measure—I'd really need to ramp up the speed and agility angles to overcome his advantages, but I'd much rather figure out how to do that _now_ than when I was faced with someone who was _really_ out for my blood.

And Spider wasn't, I felt sure after our first session, despite his indirect confirmations of my suspicions about Ace poisoning the other guys against me (during cool down after our second sparring match, he'd made a comment about how I was a lot more laid-back than he'd been told; when I asked him _who_ told him that he got cagey and wouldn't answer, but I knew well enough).

As I got to know him a little better, his willingness to give me the benefit of the doubt made more sense—he was smart, level-headed, and, to the best of my assessment, completely sane, which was saying something for a Joker henchman. I was maintaining my decision not to get close to any of the men, so I didn't ask any questions, but Spider was an open book, and based on the several offhand comments he dropped on the subject, he was working with us largely because a criminal history that started when he was very young ruled out more respectable jobs, and at any rate, he figured he had a knack for it by now.

Sparring with Spider had an unforeseen effect. I'd just wanted to brush up on my knife skills, but he must have been talking about me to some of the other guys, because even with me keeping largely to myself—much more so than I used to—the atmosphere of chilly suspicion bordering on hostility was starting to dissolve. They started speaking to me, just little passing things, some hesitantly crass but well-meaning jokes meant to include me—or at least to make me feel not- _excluded_. It was heartwarming, really, coming from this group of rough, tough, mean-looking guys, and I couldn't help but grin at them in passing and start to learn their names, even as I continuously reminded myself not to get _too_ drawn in.

Naturally, there was a small group that maintained a distance and glowered as covertly as they could manage when I walked past—Ace's buddies, naturally, comically almost all white skinheads; they all looked alike to me. I was kind of grateful for them. If not for their almost-constant presence, I might have been tempted to spend more time in the main area. As it was, I limited it to just enough time to not appear standoffish, thirty minutes here and there—and always, I noticed, the subject of George's casually watchful eye, though we hadn't spoken since the weevil conversation.

As for the Joker, I barely saw him that first week. He always seemed to have something to do, usually out of the house, and for the most part, I was okay with that. Sure, I wanted to be with him every passing minute, but the fearful urgency that had accompanied that desire for the past few months had faded now that I was back home. Additionally, to a certain extent, I felt a little ashamed being around him while I was out of practice. I didn't mind staying under the radar until I was back in top shape as the Harley he was used to, the one he deserved.

Then, as I was just starting to feel caught up, he sprung that glorious date night on me.

The next day, Cobblepot got in touch.

I woke to an empty room, but I could hear the thumping of hurried footsteps below, and there was a palpable tenseness in the air—not necessarily bad as much as anticipatory. I was sitting at the edge of the bed and pulling on some jeans when J appeared in the doorway. The paint was back on; he was dressed in Joker attire, sans coat, and when he saw that I was awake, he took a second to button his cuffs before telling me, "He wants us. Tonight."

"Okay," I said, feeling a little pulse of adrenaline at the thought of _really_ getting back in action. "Umm. What's the plan?"

He straightened his tie, smoothed down his vest, and then approached me. There was a look in his eye that I wasn't sure how to feel about—I recognized it as one he got when he was planning a surprise, but his surprises rarely went well for anyone besides him, myself included. I watched him suspiciously as he stooped abruptly in front of me, put his hands on my knees, and looked up at me with a devious smile that wasn't exactly reassuring. "The _plan,_ princess, at least as far as _you're_ concerned… is you're gonna kidnap the commissioner's kids. And you're gonna bring 'em to me."

My eyebrows shut up. _This is new._ We'd kidnapped people before, sure, just never… well, _kids._ "The, uh… the _commissioner's_ —?"

"Commissioner Jim Gordon. He's an old buddy. Can't get him to stop arresting me." He stood up, reached in his back pocket, and pulled out a couple of pictures, setting them face up on my legs and tapping at them with his fingertips. "Jim, nine, and Barbara, three. Named after their parents." He tsked in disapproval. " _Lazy_."

I pulled the photos out from under his fingers and looked at them. They were cute—little Jim was sporting a smile that was missing two front teeth and short blond hair in a cut that made it obvious he was a cop's kid, and Barbara had a shock of curly red hair framing her rosy, round face. They looked like professionally-done portraits. I wondered where he'd gotten them. "Okay," I said slowly, "so why _these kids_ in particular?"

The Joker paced a few steps away, lacing his hands behind his back and stretching. "Gordon's a mutual friend of mine and, ah, our _favorite_ bug-breathed menace, if their past collaborations are anything to go by. Nothin' like a little _personal_ touch to get his attention."

"So you're really planning to draw him off of Cobblepot?" I asked, idly flipping the pictures over. There were addresses written on the back—a school for Jim, a daycare for Barbara, along with their pickup times. The Joker must have someone close to Gordon feeding him this stuff. "I guess that makes sense. Lure him into a false sense of security."

When he didn't answer, I glanced up. He was wearing a curious expression, one that I might call almost guilty if it wasn't for the completely unabashed edge to it. I was immediately suspicious. "J, what are you planning?"

"Now, now, now," he chided me, though a sly grin had slipped onto his face. "You focus on _your_ part. It's _important._ Now, uh, _George_ is gonna drive you, help out where he can… the two of you are less likely to get the cops called on you for _lurking_ around a playground than _me_ or… well, _any_ of the other guys, really. Beyond that, it's _your_ call."

"What time is it?"

"Time for you to get a _watch_ ," he mumbled halfheartedly, but he was fishing his pocket watch out even as he spoke. "Twelve-thirty."

I checked the pickup times on the back of the photos. "You're telling me that I've got approximately two hours to plan a double kidnapping of the _police commissioner's_ children—a kidnapping, might I add, that I knew _nothing_ about before this moment?"

"Uhh… yeah." He squinted at me. "That's not a _problem_ , is it?"

I sighed. "Not a problem at all," I said dutifully. "Just… I'm probably gonna need to borrow your laptop for a little while, get my bearings."

"Sure. And Harley?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't _fuck_ _up_."

I rolled my eyes. "Jeez, thanks for trying your best to keep me from getting nervous," I said flatly, then got up and got to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hee hee. I couldn't resist; Edward Nygma is one of my favorite Rogues and also a smarmy little shit (has anyone found the pattern among my favorites?). And on that note, it is a testament to the fact that my life is a cosmic joke that the two rogues that have been featured in every episode of Gotham so far are Penguin and Riddler- I swear, I've been plotting this story for years, they were always going to be here, but it looks like I'm just cribbing all my ideas from the TV! Ah, c'est la vie. Should have moved faster.
> 
> ...okay, I'm kidding, it's not actually an issue, Gotham Eddie and Oswald are way different than the ones I'm writing. On that note, though, I just binge-watched like four episodes of Gotham this afternoon and I _love_ it. Everyone's perfect, it's so much fun watching these characters I love in a new take, the people writing the show obviously love these characters, too, and I just want to hug _everyone_ involved. So consider this a ringing endorsement; if you're not watching Gotham yet, do it and get your Batman fix! I'm telling you, it delivers.
> 
> All right, I'm sick and drowsy so continuing to type without having much to say is probably ill-advised. Next: another big night for the clown couple. In the meantime, even if feedback won't technically heal me, it'll certainly make me feel better in _soul_ (oh, yes, I went there). Until next time!


	14. save you from yourself

_Don't fret, precious, I'm here._  
_Step away from the window,_  
_go back to sleep.  
_

**A Perfect Circle, _Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=giaZnIr-faM))  
_**

When I visualized how that day would end, I didn't foresee that I'd be crushed against the wall in a chokehold, pinned by my monumentally pissed-off paramour. Well, that _might_ have been in the cards, but in a decidedly different context and with considerably less anger.

As I scratched at the fingers holding me in place, trying to no avail to get at least enough space to take a breath, the Joker tilted his head back, looking at me calculatingly from the bottom rims of his eyes, a look that I most often associated with his most dangerous form of anger—the kind that yielded deliberate cruelty, that demanded meticulously-measured pounds of flesh to assuage it. Things weren't looking so good.

He cleared his throat and, quite as if we were just continuing a calm, peaceful discussion, said, "Ah. I'm just having a little trouble _following_ you, Harley, _dear_. Tell me _again._ "

His grip on me loosened, just enough so that I could pull a labored breath in and hiss, "I already _told_ you. Repeating the story isn't gonna change it."

"Aww, maybe not—but let's _try_ ," he said, meeting my eyes and giving me a slight, encouraging nod. "I'll even help you. Look—" he licked his lips, glanced at the ceiling for inspiration, then met my eyes and began: "Earlier today…"

"Earlier today," I ground out, showing him by fixing my eyes on his that I was giving in, though I sure as hell didn't like it.

"You brought the brats to me," he prompted.

"Yeah," I muttered, pulling at his hands to try to loosen them some. "At that place near the East River."

* * *

_**Earlier** _

Kidnapping the kids turned out to be scarily easy. As it turns out, the actual act of kidnapping isn't so hard when it 'doesn't matter if people see you or not.' A quick check with the Joker told me that the noisier and more obvious we were, the better, as long as it didn't result in us getting caught before I could deliver the children to him. George was driving, I was riding beside him in the passenger seat—he seemed a little startled that I didn't want to ride in the back, but I was feeling nervous and figured that the distance that my sitting in the back seat would put between us would only make it worse, though I didn't bother telling him so.

We went for the girl first, agreeing that it would probably be easiest—and it was. All I had to do was walk in the front door, flash a gun, and while everyone cowered and cried, I looked for Barbara. She was the only kid there with red hair. I scooped her up, tensing my arm to keep her from slipping out of my grip as she flailed and cried, and walked out.

Once I had Barbara, I rode with her in the backseat, feeling that it would be easier to manage her with more space. Once away from all the panicking adults, out of my arms and with no gun in sight, she actually calmed down quickly—she was still young enough that she didn't know what was going on, and judging by how quickly I got her to stop crying and start smiling shyly with just some sweet-talk and a couple of simple magic tricks, she was a sweet, friendly kid naturally. I pushed down any pangs that realization might have caused and focused on the job.

As quickly as possible, George got me to the school. We were worried that the daycare would have caught on to what was happening and called ahead to warn the school to lock down, but our concerns were unfounded—as we pulled up to the pickup area, we saw little James, standing by himself and watching the cars that pulled in, clearly looking for his mother.

We pulled up beside him, and, pulling Barbara into in my lap where he could see her clearly, I opened the door. "James."

He knew immediately what was happening, I could see it in his face, but even as I prepared to leap out after him and snatch him up, he walked slowly towards the car. He paused, looked at me, and said, "Are you going to hurt my sister?"

I swallowed. It wasn't easy in the face of his clear concern for his sister over himself, but I remembered the Joker's words of advice— _don't fuck it_ _up_ —and I looked him in the eye and said, "Not if you come with me and stay calm."

He stared at me for another minute, then gave a nearly-imperceptible nod and climbed into the seat beside me. I buckled his seatbelt, held Barbara on my lap, and told George to drive.

The ride was a quiet one. I played with Barbara, letting her go through the contents of my bag (after confiscating several of the more dangerous items, of course), and she seemed to like that, even more comfortable now that her brother was here and apparently not upset. James sat with his hands on his knees, tensely watching me with his sister but staying perfectly still for the duration of the ride. Neither of them even looked around when the sirens started blaring in the distance.

The Joker had directed us to take them to a place on the East River, one of the many textile factories in the area that had been shut down during the depression. Once George parked, I took off James' seatbelt, took his hand, balanced Barbara on my hip, and took both children into the building. George didn't follow.

We were there alone long enough to get restless, even long enough for James to unbend and play rock, paper, scissors with me as Barbara clung to the fingers of my free hand and examined the black fingernail polish I wore with great interest.

Finally, as the sun was starting to sink in the sky, turning the whole city a sickly, uneasy orange, the Joker made an appearance, one or two henchmen tailing him. The children and I turned to look at him, and Barbara started crying immediately. James, didn't, though—James just stared at him, and I was suddenly glad he hadn't seen fit to glare at _me_ like that. I guess he hadn't recognized me, hadn't known who he was dealing with until then.

I picked Barbara up, thinking I could at least turn her away so that she didn't have to see him, and something ugly surfaced in the Joker's eyes. He turned to a henchman, jerked his chin, and said, "All right, tape 'em."

The henchmen came towards us. One grabbed James roughly, receiving a sound kick in the shin for his trouble. He rewarded the kid with a backhand hard enough to make his nose start bleeding, and it was only the children's presence and the fact that I was half-focused on the henchman approaching me for Barbara that kept me from swearing a blue streak at him.

I fixed the man coming towards me with a look that I hope conveyed _exactly_ what I was feeling and said, "You touch this child and I am going to cut off every. Single. Appendage you _have_."

He faltered. I snatched the duct tape from him, shot the Joker a look, and set Barbara down gently, mirroring what the other henchman had done with James, albeit more gently—taping her hands together and reluctantly placing a strip over her mouth, her crying the whole time (and only able to make myself do it with the knowledge that the henchman would be considerably rougher with her). Once the duct tape was in place, I carried her over to where the other henchman had pushed James down into a seated position on the floor and set her next to him, and they huddled together immediately, eyes darting fearfully between me and the Joker.

Speaking of the clown—I turned to find his narrowed eyes locked on me. "Set up, boys," he ordered, and as they dispersed to obey, he started prowling in my direction. I shot a quick look at the kids, making sure they were staying put, and then went to meet him halfway.

"Uh…" he opened as we stopped in front of each other, ducking his head a little to get more on my level, "are we… adopting _kids_ , Harls?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Don't start."

He widened his eyes innocently, spreading his hands to signify befuddlement. " _What_? I mean, _sure_ , I told you to _kidnap_ 'em, not form a lifelong _attachment_ , but… tomato, to- _mah_ -to, I guess."

"I'm not forming a lifetime attachment," I hissed, glancing over my shoulder at the kids. "I'm just trying to spare them as much trauma as possible; sue me."

"Heh. _Believe_ me, Harley," he said, digging his pocket watch out and studying the face with a furrowed brow, " _trauma's_ the _least_ of their worries right now."

I stared at him. "What does that mean?"

"Huh?" He met my eyes and widened his in innocence. "Well—for instance, they've been _kidnapped_. Immediate physical uncertainty trumps potential emotional damage down the line, wouldn't you say?"

I didn't trust his put-on innocence for a second, but the fact that he was bothering to lie to me meant I wouldn't get anywhere by pressing. Best to wait and see what he meant. In the meantime, I said, "Yeah, that's a point you seem to be conveniently ignoring—they _were_ kidnapped. By _me_. Just cause I wanted to make sure one of our guys didn't hit a damn toddler doesn't mean I can't get the job done."

As he tucked his watch back into his pocket with one gloved hand, he reached out with the other and patted me on the head, rather hard for all that it was an ostensibly affectionate gesture. "Of _course_ you can," he crooned, and I scowled at the condescending tone, but he was moving right on before I could take issue with it. "Your gear's in the car. I need you to suit up, and _fast_."

I hesitated and looked again back towards the children. "Oh, don't worry," he assured me as soon as I looked back at him. " _I'll_ look after them."

"That's kind of what I'm afraid of," I said darkly, but he _was_ the boss, and I knew I was already treading on thin ice after refusing to let the henchman touch Barbara. I was fairly sure he wouldn't do anything too awful to the kids (he didn't have a suitable audience to horrify at the moment, after all) so begrudgingly, I went.

I was in my costume and makeup in record time, but my haste in getting ready didn't do much good—as I walked back in, I saw that the Joker was squatting easily next to the children, telling them a story.

"—and do you know what Uncle Joker did _then_?" he was asking as I hurried close. James made a muffled sound against the duct tape, and the Joker cackled softly. "That's _right_! I made him swallow his own _tongue_ , hee hee hee!" He slapped his knee, beside himself with his own cleverness, and I rolled my eyes even as I thanked whatever powers that be that at least Barbara didn't seem like she'd been following the story. Little James had a troubled crease to his brow, but the kid was in middle school—chances were his classmates said worse every day, so I wasn't _quite_ as worried about him.

"Ah, Harley," the Joker said as I came to stand beside him, glancing up proudly at me. "I was just telling the kids here about that parking attendant from last Christmas, remember?"

"Yep," I said, fighting a smile despite myself. I was driving, the Joker was turned away out of sight, the parking attendant was being a real jerk about Christmas rates, so the Joker popped up and told him that he was being rude and really need to "bite his tongue" before… well, as funny as it had been at the time I didn't think it was an appropriate story to tell children, so I didn't elaborate. Instead, I met the Joker's eyes and said, "Ready."

He nodded, turned to flash a grin at the children, and said, "Nice talkin' to you, kids. Remember, get eight hours of _drugs_ every night, and don't do sleep!"

I gave little James a reassuring nod when he glanced up at me, then the Joker took my hand and jerked me away from them. He led me to an abandoned work bench, pushed me down on it, and then gestured for me to stay put—"Right _there_ , that's good."

I didn't bother to ask what he was doing, since if he hadn't bothered to tell me before, it was unlikely that haranguing him would yield good results now. I just sat on the edge of the bench and kept one eye on the kids, simultaneously watching the Joker.

The henchmen had returned from whatever 'setup' they'd been doing, and the Joker approached one, gesturing impatiently. The guy dug in his bag and surfaced with a handheld camera, which he gave over to the Joker, and I straightened up, suddenly feeling tense. _Ah. So it's another home video._

Despite having been working with the Joker for a good six months before my arrest and incarceration, I'd never featured in one of those videos—my infamy came strictly from my appearances on jobs and whatever grainy video some frightened hostage managed to capture on a cell phone. Privately, I sort of liked it that way—the Joker ate up any sort of exposure he could get, to the extent of doing these videos himself whenever he was up to something big and sending them straight to GCN, but there was also no record of his existence until his debut the year before.

Me—well, my existence before this life was fairly well documented, and I didn't necessarily relish the idea of people who I'd once known gaping over footage of me now, gasping, "Oh, but she was such a nice girl!" while simultaneously, secretly delighting in the fact that they'd known someone who was now an active part of Gotham's lurid pulp-fiction of a criminal underbelly. It wasn't that I had any sense of shame or doubt about what I did; I just didn't want to give them the voyeuristic satisfaction.

However, what I wanted was hardly important at the moment, so I stayed quiet as the Joker switched the camera on and turned it towards himself. He licked his lips, tilted his forehead towards the lens, and said, "Hello, Gotham" in a low, deliberate growl that made my mouth go dry from a mixture of anticipation and fear, because I knew what that growl meant.

Someone was about to get fucked.

"On this, uh, _fine_ afternoon, I'm here with my associate—some of you probably know her by now—" he said, turning the camera on me. "Wave to the camera, Harley!"

It took a whole lot of self-control not to roll my eyes, but I managed. Somewhere along the line—probably around the time that I'd laid eyes on the children, if I was being completely honest—my excitement for this particular job had waned. Still, the last thing I wanted him to see was my weakness or my sudden impatience with the theatrics, especially on camera, so I pulled on the cheekiest grin I could manage under the circumstances and waved, even though it made me feel a little sick to play to Gotham on command like that.

 _It's for him, Harley_ , I reminded myself as he giggled and turned the camera away from me, leaving me free to frown the way I really wanted to. _It's for him, and it will be worth it when it's over. It always is._

The thought eased me just a bit, enough for me to keep paying attention as he swung around to focus on the duct-taped children, placed conveniently under one of the only working lights in the place. "Aand—oh, would you look at this," he said, swooping in closer and stooping to get the camera close to their faces (he could have just zoomed in, but this way, his physical nearness inspired more fear, making for what I imagine was quite the little bit of footage). "Here we have little _Jaaaaames_ ," he ground out from between clenched teeth, lingering on the boy's glaring eyes for a few seconds before switching over to Barbara, "and _sweet_ little Babs." She was still crying. He tsked and chucked her under the chin before finally pulling back from them and standing up.

Still training the camera on the children in their sad little pile, he said, "Those of you who _know_ Commissioner Gordon already know his _children_ , but let me just say—I'm honored and _proud_ to have been the guy to introduce them to the _rest_ of you."

He twisted the camera abruptly around to focus on his face. "See," he said ingenuously, leaning in close, "we're playing hide and seek. We're _hiding_. Can you guess who's _seeking_?" He pressed his lips together, raised his eyebrows, and tilted his head encouragingly to the camera, giving it a few seconds before dropping the coy look and rumbling, "Come _get_ 'em, big guy."

He lowered the camera, then brought it abruptly back up, as if in afterthought. "Oh, and _hurry_. Cause if you don't find them by nine o'clock tonight… you lose. And that means—" he turned the camera back to the kids for the last bit—" _they_ lose."

Normally, he'd laugh his way out of frame, but this time, he just held the camera unusually still, focused on the children, before turning it off abruptly. "Great job, kids!" he cooed, then turned to hand the camera off to a henchman, who rushed away with it, presumably to deliver its contents to GCN. He reached up with gloved hands to brush his hair back out of his face, a distant look in his eyes, and I deemed it safe to slip off the bench and go up to him.

"So?" I ventured as soon as his eyes flicked down to me. "Where are we going now?"

" _We_ are not going anywhere," he said pleasantly, reaching out and taking my hand, holding it between his. There was a look on his face that I didn't quite like—it was way too smug, given that he hadn't actually pulled anything off yet.

I blinked. "Oh. I just—I thought you had something Penguin-related planned."

"Oh, I do," he assured me enthusiastically. "And _I_ will handle it. But I need _you_ to see this thing through."

I frowned, glanced over at the kids, then looked back at him. "You mean we're… not just gonna leave them for Batman to come find?"

"Oh, _come_ on, Harley," he said, frowning at me in disapproval. "That's _boring_. No, you've got an important part to play yet."

I tilted my head doubtfully, not liking where this was going. "Okay, I'm listening…"

He dropped my hand, placing his hands instead on my shoulders, which he gripped painfully tight, making sure all my attention was focused on him. He looked me in the eye for several seconds before speaking: "You're gonna wait here with the kids until Batman shows up. _Then_ —" he said, giving me a warning look and tightening his grip even more as I opened my mouth to argue, transforming my protest abruptly into a slight whimper instead—"you're gonna _run_ , playin' it as scared as you can. Batman will chase you. Then…" His eyes flickered shut for a split second at the thought—"well. He _might_ still be able to return the rugrats to their parents, but it won't be all in one _piece_." He clicked his tongue cheerfully, then looked down at me. "Got all that?"

I stared at him in utter disbelief. It wasn't that I was necessarily shocked at the plan—I'd known the second he told me we were pulling off a kidnapping that he probably planned to kill the kids in question, even if I had consciously avoided thinking about it until now. Still, something about the plan rubbed me the wrong way—hell, a lot of things rubbed me the wrong way, not the least of which was that he was setting me up as looking like the primary danger to the kids, effectively siccing Batman on me, when it was actually his shitty explosives that were the real threat to them.

The Joker must have seen my incredulity in my expression, because his eyes narrowed slightly and his fingers were now digging into my shoulders with bruising force. I groaned a little at the pain, unable to stop myself, and he shook me slightly. "Is there a _problem_ , Harley?" he demanded, his tone reeking with scornful challenge—he didn't say _I knew you couldn't do it, I knew as soon as kids or puppies or some other cute and_ _ **innocent**_ _fucking thing was involved you'd bail on me_ , but he might as well have.

I met his hard gaze with equal ferocity and asked, "Do you think it's really likely that Batman won't see through the trick? You think he believes I'd kill the kids?"

The Joker's grip loosened slightly, which I took as a sign that I was headed in the right direction, at least. "Mmm, he probably would predict it if he had a _day_ ," he said, sounding a little placated. "But he's got _three hours_. He's gonna be in a rush, he sees you, he thinks, _oh, bad guy, can't let the bad guy get away_ —he has a _long_ history of focusing on stopping the _evil_ before tending to the _innocents,_ you know, at _least_ if they're under no immediate perceptible threat. I'd say there's, ah, a seventy-two/twenty-eight chance that he messes up."

I raised my eyebrows. "Pretty specific odds." He lifted a shoulder modestly, and I said, "Okay, so how am I supposed to get rid of Batman if he's chasing _me_ instead of looking after the kids?"

He sucked at his top teeth and said reassuringly, "Oh, trust me. _Explosions_ distract him. If he were a big, slobbery _dog,_ exploding _warehouses_ would be his tennis ball."

I shook my head, unconvinced, but still pressed on with one of my other rather significant reasons for being wary of this plan. "Okay. So do you remember the last time you set me up on a job that ended with a building exploding?"

He narrowed his eyes and turned his head so he was looking at me out of their corners. "Ah… doesn't really ring a bell."

"No?" I asked, giving him a hard little smile. "Cause it _should_. You tried to blow me up. Now, I've forgiven you for that— _mostly_ —but can you understand why I'm a little wary to be in charge of the exploding building this time?"

He let go of my shoulders and took a step back, eyeballing me speculatively. I felt the deep ache in the muscles he'd been digging into, knew there would be bruises there tomorrow, and under the immediate circumstances I knew I should be disgusted with myself for the little thrill that raced through my body at the thought, but I still couldn't quite manage it. I didn't let on, though, folding my arms, planting my feet, and staring defiantly at him.

After a second, he seemed to reach a conclusion. He plunged his hand into a pocket, holding up the index finger of his other hand to signal me to wait, and after a few seconds of rummaging, he emerged with a knife, flicking out the blade with a flourish. It wasn't just any knife, either: although he'd never spoken the words aloud, I knew that the knife was his favorite: sturdy black handle, razor-sharp edges, and a slit running down the middle, reminiscent of a potato peeler (which I had _also_ seen him use as a weapon before, by the way, just not to _quite_ as disastrous an effect).

I didn't understand what he was doing right away, so when he took a step towards me, I jerked back. He gave me a sharp look, lashed out, and caught my wrist, dragging my hand forward. "J, what the _fuck_ —" I started, cutting myself off abruptly when he shut the knife and plopped it into my palm, closing my fingers around it tightly.

 _Oh_.

"I want that back," he told me with a warning look.

"Y… yeah, I would think so," I said, a bit blindsided still staring at my closed palm. It was stupid, really, that I put more faith in his unwillingness to lose that particular knife than in his unwillingness to lose _me_ , but still, no matter how irrational it was, I felt better.

I didn't have long to bask in that feeling before his grip tightened on my wrist and he jerked me close again. As I stumbled into him, his other hand found its way to the back of my head, fingertips digging into my hair and jerking my head back painfully. I managed to bite back my complaints, and as I met his eyes, I could tell he wasn't playing around.

"Harley," he said, staring me down. "Can I trust you to _do_ this?"

I stared back at him. No, I didn't want the children to die, and yes, my only reason for that was that they _were_ children, but there was no way in hell I would speak that out loud—it would disappoint him terribly to hear that I was just as led by the arbitrary collective morality as everyone else. Oh, he certainly _suspected_ it, but here he was, giving me a chance to prove otherwise.

I relaxed, bringing my free hand up to clasp the side of his neck gently. I looked straight into his eyes and I said, "I promise you. I'll take care of everything."

I saw the wicked gleam in his eyes again, then he pulled my head forward, giving me a painfully crushing kiss before letting me go so abruptly I nearly lost my balance. He turned away as I righted myself, firing an afterthought over his shoulder: "Do not lose that knife."

"I'm _not_ gonna lose the knife," I called after him, letting the slightest hint of annoyance seep into my tone, _just how dumb do you think I am?_

He huffed a quick laugh, then swept out of the warehouse, followed by the one remaining henchman and leaving me alone with the kids.

* * *

The first thing I did was find the bomb.

Well, "bomb." It was more like several dozen drums of gasoline in the basement wired to explode, more than enough to take down the whole building and everyone in it in seconds. I'd felt the blistering heat of explosions at a distance before, and even at a moderately safe distance, it didn't feel good. The thought of the children being exposed to that blast of flesh-melting fire made me feel slightly sick. The knowledge that they wouldn't be alive for long enough to really feel the pain of it wasn't much consolation.

That was when the doubt _really_ set in. I tried to ignore it, going back upstairs to tend to the kids, gently peeling the duct tape off of their mouths. Barbara was sobbing inconsolably, so I picked her up, bouncing her a little the way I knew infants liked—toddlers, who knew? It didn't help much, but it didn't seem to hurt, either, so I kept doing it, pacing back and forth, some deep, disloyal little part of me hoping that a passerby heard her crying and called the police.

Little James scooted into a sitting position, resting his back against a rotting wooden column, and he looked at me, his eyes completely dry. "If he's going to let Batman come get us, then why are _you_ still here?" He was decidedly less friendly now that he had been before, now that he knew who I was working with. I couldn't find it in myself to blame him.

I stared at him, trying to land on some passable lie as I tried to soothe his sister, but nothing came to mind, and after a second he nodded knowingly anyway. "You're supposed to kill us if he doesn't get here in time, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not," I objected, feeling a little pang of shame, but he just shot me a skeptical look, an expression too old for him.

"It doesn't matter. Batman will save us," he said confidently. "You'll see."

I just turned away from him, and, stroking Barbara's bedraggled curls, I muttered, "I hope you're right, kid."

Minutes ticked by, each one taking us closer to the explosion, and I kept pacing, not even feeling Barbara's weight in my arms, barely noticing when she cried herself out and fell asleep with her fat cheek pressed against my shoulder. I didn't have a good feeling about this, not at all—and I was self-aware enough to know that most of it came with my qualms about hurting children, qualms still present despite how deeply I tried to bury them in the Joker's presence, but it was more than that.

It wasn't until about 8:45 by my watch that I realized exactly what was bothering me so much, aside from the brutality of the whole thing. Well, it was _still_ the brutality, but it was a different aspect of it.

Thus far, the Joker hadn't directly targeted children. Sure, there had probably been some that were casualties of the battles he waged regularly against the city, but for the most part, he seemed considerably more interested in killing off their parents—I knew for a _fact_ that he thought that personally killing kids was tiresome unless there was someone who loved them watching; upon encountering one on the street at night, he was more likely to hand them a lollipop unearthed from the linty recesses of his coat and send them on their way than to hurt them.

 _That's it exactly_ , I realized, my eyes widening as the realization struck. _He hasn't publicly shown this level of brutality yet; hasn't gone specifically after children until now. It's bad enough that he kidnapped them, but if this explosion actually happens, then he's crossed a line. The amount of people dedicated to hunting him down will double; the amount of people who would be thrilled to use deadly force against him given half a chance would be… innumerable._ Not only were these _kids_ , but they were a _cop's kids_. They didn't even belong to some average Joe of a street officer; no, these kids belonged to the city's beloved new commissioner.

I saw with sudden, horrified clarity that if I allowed this to happen, then one way or another, he'd be dead within the year.

It was 8:50. I turned around to go get James, intending to take him and his sister out of the warehouse, get them somewhere safe. I was stooping down to help him to his feet when I saw his eyes dart up and over, resting on the corner of the ceiling and to the scaffolding fixed there.

I turned sharply and caught the flutter in the shadows gathered there, just a bare movement, but enough to make me realize that we had company. I realized suddenly that I had a way of decreasing the Joker's odds without actively defying him, which was really an idea I was _much_ more comfortable with than my current plan, and so I glanced back fast at James, set Barbara gently on the ground next to him, and whispered, "Call for him." Then I got up and ran.

James's piercing cry immediately sounded behind me as I went in the opposite direction of the corner where I was pretty sure Batman was lurking, headed for the back exit. "Batman! Help us, _please_!" I felt a wave of satisfaction even as I cut across the floor, eyes on the open back door. If he ignored that plaintive little cry to come after little old me… well, I knew the guy had _issues_ , but who prioritized catching someone like _me_ over seeing to the kids right away?

I felt reasonably comfortable with my plan right up until something wrapped around my foot just as I was crossing the threshold, some kind of cable locking right around the ankle, pulling taut immediately and knocking me right on my face. I growled in frustration, flipping over onto my back, and as the cable tightened and started to drag me inside again, I pulled the Joker's knife out from where I had tucked it in my corset and bent over, trying to ignore the jerking pulls dragging me back into the factory as I cut into the cable.

The Joker's knife was sharp, and I'd severed the cable after sawing at it hard for just a few seconds. By then, a big, hulking shadow had materialized in the dark in front of me, and as he rushed towards me, I somersaulted abruptly backwards, springing to my feet on completion of the roll and launching back into a backwards handspring out the door again. As I came back up, I saw that I'd put a little bit of distance between us—not much, but enough for me to do what I needed to do.

Which was yell at him.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" I howled.

He came to an abrupt stop. I'm pretty sure I was channeling my mother, if not all moms _everywhere_ , because the tone wasn't frustrated-thwarted-enemy so much as how- _dare_ -you-bring-home-such-a-shoddy-report-card. The fact that my hands had found their way to my hips the second I was back on my feet probably didn't help.

I pointed emphatically to the factory behind him. "Go _get_ them, right NOW! You've got like three minutes before this entire place goes up in flames and you're worried about chasing _me_ down? GET THEM TO SAFETY, YOU _CRETIN_!"

He was gone on 'goes up in flames,' which is probably the only way I had the courage to call him a cretin in his hearing. The second I was certain that he would actually take care of the children, I turned and bolted as fast as my legs would carry me away from the factory.

The explosion happened right on time. I'd sprinted well out of the blast range by then, but still, I felt it beneath my feet—it shook little bits of gravel loose from the road, and I turned breathlessly to see the thick tongue of orange and black lapping at the night sky, visible even though I was blocks away by then.

"Oh, God, I hope he got them out," I panted, but I found even as I said it that I wasn't actually worried. There was no way he hadn't gotten those children out safe once he knew what sort of danger they were in, not if the way he had once saved my life was anything to go by. The Joker might be right; he might prefer to take down the villain over getting hostages out first if the hostages weren't in obvious danger, but when there was an active threat to an innocent's life… well, his instinct was to save them.

And I was glad for it.

I turned away and started running again, this time pacing myself a little bit, keeping my eyes peeled for a car to steal so I could get back home quickly. As it turned out, there was no need—as I jogged along n the sidewalk, a car pulled up beside me and coasted along, keeping pace with me. I shot a glance at the driver, ready to pull my revolver and fire two bullets into some leering street harasser's face if necessary, but when I recognized George, I stopped abruptly. He put on the brakes, and I climbed gladly into the seat beside him.

He watched me as I buckled my seatbelt, and I looked up and met his eyes when I realized we weren't going anywhere, suddenly afraid that my guilt was evident.

"Eventful night?" was all he said, and I blew out a laugh, ducking out from under my shoulder strap.

"You have no idea."

"Oh, I might," he said dryly, taking off from the curb and directing us home.

We drove in silence for a while, and maybe it was the adrenaline rush from the night, but despite my determination to keep my distance from this henchman in particular, I found myself crawling with curiosity. He hadn't been involved in any of the Joker's plots since I'd returned in any role besides that of a driver, and I knew J—we had plenty of guys who could handle a car; he wasn't going to keep a guy (especially an _older_ one) around just to drive a car.

 _You don't need to know anything about him,_ I told myself firmly. With the way my blood was humming, that resolution lasted for all of a second before I thought _fuck it,_ turned towards him, and asked, "Can I ask you a kind of personal question?"

He glanced at me with those droopy eyes and, in his usual deadpan, he replied, "You can ask. I can't promise you'll get an answer."

I nodded, accepting his terms, and said, "I've actually been wondering for a while. Don't take this the wrong way, but… you're not the usual sort of guy we get working for us."

"What, you mean I'm old as dirt?"

"Put it how you want," I said, refusing to rise to the bait. "But you aren't some young tatted-up druggie kid who's decided that he doesn't like the way the world treats him so he's gonna lash out at it, no matter how you look at you. You're… level, calm, and from what I gather, you're a pretty good man to have at your back in a crisis. Again, not our usual type."

"What's the question, Harley?"

"The question is… why are you here?"

He stared out at the road for so long that I thought he was going to ignore the question entirely. When he finally did answer, it was about as vague as I expected it to be: "Men of my age and skill set… we tend to be considered unemployable, like we should have retired all ready. Only not all of us have the luxury of being _able_ to retire."

I raised my eyebrows. "So between this and bagging groceries to pay the rent, this won out?"

"I'm old, not dead," he said with a slight edge to his gravelly monotone that I'd never heard before. "I'm not signing up to get yelled at by suburban soccer moms twenty years my junior cause I used paper instead of plastic. At least with this job I'm allowed to shoot the people who deserve it."

I nodded, recalling that a very similar viewpoint had led me to this job as well. "You have a point there." There was a moment of silence as I relaxed back into my seat, and then, wondering just how much I could get out of him, I said, "So what exactly _is_ your skill set? I mean, what did you do before? Cause I don't exactly get a criminal vibe from you, no offense meant."

I saw that slight tug at his mouth again, the not-quite-smile that seemed the closest he ever got to an outward expression of amusement (which made him an ironic choice for Joker henchman, but hey, if he got the job done…). Checking behind us as we rolled up to a red light, he said, "Maybe you oughta quit worrying so much about where I came from and more about what you're gonna tell the boss when we get back. I gather things there didn't go quite as he planned."

"No, they didn't," I sighed, slumping slightly. I'd been ignoring that line of thought quite nicely before George brought it up again; I imagine he'd been stationed outside the warehouse to wait for me and probably saw Batman clearing out with the children in tow.

"He ain't gonna be happy."

"No," I muttered, worrying my lip in sudden fear. "No, he ain't."

* * *

He wasn't.

Which brings us to the little tableau later that evening: me slammed up against the wall so hard that the house practically shook and my entire back felt bruised, the Joker standing with his hand clenched around my throat and his cheerfully livid face in front of mine as he made me tell him _twice_ exactly what happened at the factory.

Of course I didn't tell him the entire truth; it'd be suicide even if he _didn't_ have me completely at his mercy. Fortunately, there wasn't a whole lot to leave out: I just neglected to mention that I had been planning to get the kids out of danger myself, as well as the fact that Batman had initially pursued me and that the only reason he'd gone back for the kids was that I'd told him the Joker's plan. If the Joker wanted to take issue with my lies of omission, I reasoned, he shouldn't have taught me how to pull them off naturally. Indeed, by the time we'd reached headquarters, I'd half-convinced _myself_ that Batman had simply never followed me to begin with.

It helped that I knew he couldn't prove his suspicions, so as I finished telling the tale for the second time, I met his eyes, trying to cultivate just the right combination of fear of him and confidence in my story that I thought might convince him.

He narrowed his eyes, clearly no more convinced after the second recitation than he had been after the first. "Your story changed."

"Fuck you, no it didn't," I said defiantly, gurgling a little as his grip closed in on my throat again.

" _Yesss_ , it did."

"No, it did _not_ ," I insisted wheezily, forcing the words out though I scarcely had air for them. "You're trying to get me to… nyegh… slip up and admit to a lie, but it's not gonna happen, because I'm not _lying_."

His eyes darted back and forth, focusing on my left eye, then my right, over and over again, like he hoped to catch the ghost of a lie shining in one of them before I could pull it back. His hand loosened just a tad, allowing me to pull in a noisy breath, and I went on: "Look, I'm sorry Batman didn't do what you expected him to do…"

"Oh, you're not _sorry_ ," he spat out, pressing me back against the wall roughly one more time before finally withdrawing his hand. It was only as I dropped in a heap to the floor that I realized he'd been the only thing holding me up; I could barely feel my feet. "But as soon as I confirm that you're nothing but a bloody-hearted _liar_ , you're _gonna_ be."

I coughed, rubbing gingerly at my tender throat as he turned and paced away, clearly agitated. Fighting past the desire to stay silent and spare my throat any further stress, I rasped, "All right, fine. You can think I'm lying all you want, and I'll keep denying it. It doesn't change what happened, and the fact that what _happened_ was for the _best_."

Without so much as missing a step, he fluidly reached over, seized the lamp on his desk, jerked it from the wall, and twisted to fling it at me. I couldn't help flinching, but managed to hold my ground, and was rewarded when it shattered against the wall a foot to my right—I got hit with several fragments of hot glass, a couple of which dug right in, but I managed to keep my stare steady and fixed on him.

The act of throwing the lamp seemed to have leached most of that animal anger from him. The man staring back at me now was calm and collected, his shoulders relaxed, hands resting on his hips and head tilted expectantly as he regarded me. "Okay, I'll, ah, _humor_ you. How is this for the best?"

I held his gaze even as I reached across to my arm and started plucking the bigger pieces of glass out. "The way I figure it, thinking back… cops hate cop killers, don't they?"

" _Hmmh_ ," he chuckled, one eyebrow darting up briefly in amusement—he would know _all_ about that. "Like _Ghandhi_ hated Jews."

I paused, processing that one, then shook it off. "Okay, whatever—they hate cop killers so much, how do you think they'd react to a guy who not only killed _cops,_ but who also killed a cop's _kids_?"

The Joker made no response other than narrowing his eyes and chewing on the inside of his cheek. I sat up straighter. "J, they'd shoot to kill you on _sight_. It's a miracle they're not doing that _already_ , but you kill Commissioner Gordon's kids? Hell, you'll have _civilians_ camping out in Crime Alley with sniper rifles."

" _Welll_ , they already do that."

"With an express eye towards killing _you_. _You_ , specifically. Baby, everyone in this city _already_ wants you dead. How long do you really think you'd last if you murdered Jim Gordon's kids? People _love_ that guy. They'd take it personally"

He stared at me for another moment before rolling his shoulders up and back in a casual shrug. "If I'm being, ah, _honest_ , that sounds like a party."

"Maybe so," I sighed resignedly—knowing him, I didn't doubt that he meant it. "All I'm saying is that… maybe this worked out the best way it could, after all. We've still got work to do, and citizens taking shots at you every time you show your face would make that work considerably harder."

" _Yess_ ," he purred, still staring at me, and although the danger didn't feel entirely past, I got the distinct impression that I'd talked my way out of this one for now. "Speaking of work… I've got a few _plans_ to make. So." He jerked his head towards the door. " _Out_."

Great. I was being exiled. Since my return, I'd been allowed in his room whenever I wanted, but I'd known it was bound to end eventually—he always locked me out sooner or later, and what better time than after I'd disappointed him so dramatically? I didn't complain. I slowly got to my feet, trying to make myself too small to notice as I skirted him on the way to the door.

It didn't work. He caught my hand as I tried to get by and jerked me roughly to a stop. The other hand clasped the back of my neck, and he bumped his forehead into mine and left it there. His eyes inches from mine, so close that I found it hard to focus on them, he muttered, "Don't forge _t_ where your loyalty lies, little _Harley Quinn_. I'm the _only_ person you've got looking out for you, the _only_ person who cares if you live or die, and I'm _watching_ you."

He didn't give me time to react before jerking my head back away from his and giving me a shove out into the hallway, slamming the door unceremoniously on me and clicking the lock in place. I rolled my eyes, trying to shake off the sudden wounded feeling in the pit of my stomach, and made my way downstairs.

It wasn't until I got down into the midst of the henchmen celebrating what was obviously a successful night that I realized that there had been a Part Two to the night's events, a part I had been completely left out of. I found out from Spider as I hunted down tweezers and bandages for my glass-studded arm just what had gone down.

The Penguin's men had been set to receive several storage containers delivered at the West Side docks. Just as they were opening them up to examine the contents, they'd fallen under a hail of gunfire. Not a single one of them survived.

The Joker told our guys they could take whatever they could carry from the storage containers (the contents of which, I gathered, were mostly stolen art and illegal weapons, real black market shit). Once they'd gotten all they wanted, the Joker blew up the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies, y'all, I know this update was monstrously overdue. First there was that change-of-seasons cold, next came family drama that ate up my spare time... but I'm pleased to report that things in general are much better. Thanks to all of you who sent well-wishes, I appreciate it.
> 
> Harley's getting slipperier and slippier, good for her, and you can bet we haven't seen the last of Bats, either. Far from it. Next chapter will feature more Cobblypot and the return of at least one familiar face, and it'll be another big fat chapter as well- that's what happens when things happen all at once and there are no sane breaking points!
> 
> Okay, cutting notes short tonight because I've been driving all day long and I'm about to fall face-down on my bed. You guys are the greatest; thank you for the feedback. :)


	15. you blink when you lie

_You blink when you breathe_  
_And you breathe when you lie_  
_You blink when you lie_  
_Who's got it figured out?_  
_Play straight!_

 **-The Dead Weather,** _**Treat Me Like Your Mother ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M7QSkI6My1g))** _

Three days had passed since the dual kidnapping-shootout double event, and I was nowhere nearer to the Joker's good graces than I had been on the night of—though it wasn't due to lack of trying. I just kept managing to say the _exact_ wrong thing.

My most recent offense could have been avoided if I'd thought it through. I'd walked into the main room to find that the henchmen were all gone, presumably banished, and the Joker was stretched out on his back on the couch, lips pursed, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. Quietly, I went and wedged myself into the small space left between his feet and the arm of the couch, and he spoke out loud: "I oughta just _strangle_ him, you know."

"Strangle who?" I asked gently.

He shot me a sharp look, annoyed that I wasn't keeping up with the conversation that he'd been having in his head up till that point: "Cobblepot. Arrogant li'l stuffed _bird_ , thinking that he warrants _Batman's_ attention. Sure, Bats has been known to trifle with two bit gangsters on occasion, but that was before… well, _me_."

"Yeah, but you must be at least a _little_ bit worried about it," I pointed out. His eyes cut to me again.

"Oh _yeah_? Well, what makes you say that?" he asked without missing a beat.

"Well, you're attacking Penguin's operation. I've never known you to worry much about the mafia's power struggle, so it's gotta be that you're annoyed that he's monopolizing Batman's attention, which would… imply that Batman's _giving_ him attention. Right?"

The corners of his mouth jerked down in a violent frown. Without saying a word, he hooked his feet behind my waist and pushed me right off the couch to the floor. "Ow, shit!" I exclaimed as I landed painfully on my shoulder, and he craned his neck to glare down at me.

"Do me a favor, Harley, huh? Keep your thoughts about Bats to _yourself_."

"Fine, whatever, just trying to help," I growled, getting hastily to my feet and leaving the room in a huff.

It was about that time that I decided that I was overdue for a visit to Pam. I'd been thinking about her a lot, feeling overwhelmingly guilty about the way that our last visit had ended, and now I actually had an excuse to go see her, what with the newspaper clippings I'd noticed at Eddie's place. I figured she needed to know about that, and if there was an ideal time to visit, this was it. The Joker was annoyed with me, so I doubted my absence would be noted with anything but relief—he certainly wouldn't have any reason to _follow_ me there, unless he just wanted to attack Pam again out of natural meanness. While that was always a possibility, his current moodiness seemed born more of restlessness and preoccupation than malice directed specifically towards me, so I felt like I was in the clear.

Of course, he could be the _least_ of my worries. Pam could slam the door in my face… and after the way our last meeting went, I couldn't exactly blame her. I'd cross that bridge when I reached it—it'd be worse to not try at all out of anticipation of rejection.

I put on jeans and a red tank, throwing on my favorite black leather bomber to cover the scars on my arms and finishing up with my favorite boots, threw my revolver and some knives (and a grenade, just for the hell of it) into my bag, grabbed keys to one of the community clunkers out of the designated drawer, and left the house.

The sun had set an hour ago, giving the dark ample time to settle over the city. September had dawned, and I could feel it in the crisp air—I even imagined I could smell burning leaves, though it was much more likely that the source was just a hobo's fire. As I drove towards Chelsea Hill, I realized how much I was enjoying the drive, and just being out in general. I loved the Joker, and enough of the henchmen were decent enough company to make staying in bearable, but I realized then that I'd been feeling cooped up, especially in the aftermath of the kidnapping and my failure to follow through there. I felt my spirits lifting even as I tried to keep myself grounded with the thought that Pam was going to be _pissed_. It didn't work very well.

It was with nervous anticipation that I strode up the steps to her brownstone and rapped on the door with more confidence than I felt. I stood there for thirty seconds without a response, and I was starting to eye the plant on her stoop, wondering if she'd switched it with one responsive only to her, thereby revoking my access to her house (again, I wouldn't blame her), when I heard the lock scrape and the door creaked open.

She stood in the doorway in a long white dressing gown, tall and regal, no makeup, hair tousled, looking more breathtakingly beautiful than I thought I'd ever seen her (some people have all the luck). Some of my awe at the sight of her must have shown on my face, because even as I stared at her the flinty look in her eyes softened, and though her expression remained as stern as ever, she turned and walked back into the house, leaving the door open in an unspoken invitation.

I followed her inside, and as I stopped to close and lock the door behind us, she said over her shoulder, "Should you even bother with that? I mean, if he's going to just show up and slap the living shit out of me again for _daring_ to be your friend, I imagine he'll find a way around the lock anyway."

I grimaced. I deserved that one. Instead of responding directly, I trailed after her towards the living room and said, "What are you _thinking_ , Red, coming to the door in that? What if I'd been some gross dude?"

"All _dudes_ are gross," she said dryly, "but I wasn't exactly worried." I looked to see that she was holding up a tremendous meat cleaver that had been hidden behind her, out of my sight, and after making sure I'd gotten a look, she set it carelessly on the coffee table before draping herself across the couch.

"Holy shit, Pam, that's _beautiful_ ," I said plopping down in the neighboring armchair and reaching for the knife. The blade was so sharp I would have sliced my finger wide open if I hadn't been extra cautious testing it, and I cut experimentally through the air with it. "The grip is great," I said, examining the little handle, perfect for a woman's often-smaller hands. "This thing is like a razor, Pam, all you'd have to do is give someone one good whack to the neck and you'd take their head half off."

"Yes, that was the idea," she said, and my smile of delight at the sight of Pam's new toy started to fade a bit as I processed the chilliness in her tone.

I decided that avoiding the issue would just make for a cold, awkward visit, so I placed the cleaver gently down on the coffee table and looked directly at her (not an easy feat when her chin was lifted in that imposing way). "Yeah, so, I owe you big—I mean, at the very least, you deserve an apology, and I _am_ sorry."

She narrowed her eyes slightly, more appraising than glaring. "And yet _you_ weren't the one who hit me."

"No, but I _did_ leave you without so much as an 'I'm sorry' or even a 'goodbye.' Pam, I'm so, so sorry."

She flicked her fingers in an impatiently dismissive gesture, shushing me with a hiss. "Oh, don't do that."

"Do _what_?"

"Don't act like that whole incident was somehow your fault. All _you_ wanted to do was see your best friend after three months of isolation. When faced with a difficult decision, you had to think quickly and made the only decision you really _could_ have made."

"It isn't the decision _you_ would have made," I pointed out quickly.

"No, but when I'm angry, I've been known to get irrational," she said, meeting my gaze without a trace of guilt or self-consciousness. "I'd have let him kill me just to prove a point that night… which was stupid, and in retrospect, I realize that. Better to live to cut his throat another day."

I couldn't help but flinch at the visual of the Joker meeting his fate at the hands of my best friend, dropping my eyes to my clasped hands rather than go on witnessing the bloodlust in hers. She noticed, of course, and went on: "But maybe I shouldn't say too much on that score. All you need to know is that I don't blame _you_ for what happened the last time we saw each other. Doubtless you just feel guilty because, aside from it being the sensible choice all around, it was the choice _you_ wanted to make."

"That's a fair bet," I said, trying to keep my tone level.

She scrutinized me for a moment, then shrugged. "Anyway. That's over with. Let's talk about what on this green _earth_ induced you to kidnap the Commissioner's children."

I widened my eyes. "See, this is _exactly_ why I don't like those damn videos he makes. I mean, I appreciate the way they enhance the stone-cold crazy act, but _this_ —I have no plausible deniability."

"They're incriminating, for sure," she agreed, though the little smile curling at the edge of her mouth made me think she was a little more impressed by the ballsiness of the move than she was letting on. "But _Commissioner Gordon's_ children? You couldn't have made off with some beat cop's brats instead; you had to make it a suicide mission?"

"Hey, it wasn't my plan," I objected. "And anyway, I'm sitting here right now alive and well, aren't I?"

"Yes, well, I imagine that's because the children _survived_ ," she said dryly. "Which I gather they weren't meant to do."

"Yeah… that little detail's gotten me into quite a bit of trouble lately, so I'm going to plead the fifth, if you don't mind," I muttered. I glanced up to see the knowing look in her eye, and decided it would be wisest to change the subject again. "So _that_ happened. Want to know something else that happened since I saw you last?"

"What?" Pam asked gamely.

I stared at her for a second, trying to decide how to play it, and then, deciding that the impact would be softened a bit if I eased into it as lightly as possible, I gave her a devilish grin. "I met a man."

Her spine went ramrod straight. "What?"

"I just told you, I met a man."

"Harley, _what_?" she repeated impatiently. "Are you seriously—"

"Oh, not the dating kind. Sorry if I gave you the wrong idea," I said, widening my eyes guilelessly at her. She exhaled abruptly and glared.

"Sorry, my ass. You knew _exactly_ what you were doing," she grumbled, leaning back against the couch again.

"Sorry," I laughed. "No, really, I am. I _did_ meet this guy, though, and… don't freak out, okay? Cause I'm pretty sure this isn't something you really need to freak out about."

She narrowed her eyes testily. "I doubt I'll freak out _regardless_ , but the longer you stall before telling me what the hell you're talking about, the greater the likelihood that you won't leave this place in one piece."

"Okay, sheesh, point taken. So there's this guy, I visited his place with the Joker—real brainy type, I'm talking hacker-PI-conspiracy theorist hybrid, you should see his place."

"Are we even _approaching_ the point?" she wondered out loud.

"The _point_ is that he's got this huge wall just riddled with newspaper clippings. And he had a thread connecting the article about your disappearance in Egypt to Pennington's murder."

I spat the last bit out all in a rush, and then held my breath, waiting for the inevitable blowup.

Which didn't come. Pam just chewed her lip thoughtfully, then, with perfect calm, she asked, "Were there any other clippings along the line?"

"I mean… it stretched across the board, so it kind of went over a few others, but none of them seemed connected, and neither of them were pinned like the two I'm talking about."

"Well, to the casual observer, _those_ two articles were completely unconnected as well," she pointed out.

I frowned, unconvinced. "Yeah, maybe, but… you had to _meet_ this guy, Pam. All his talk could have been bluster, but I'm pretty sure he's like… a genius. At least, the Joker went to _him_ for information on this person we're working with, and he didn't kill him even though the guy was mouthing off to him way more than I've ever seen anyone get away with besides me."

"Maybe the Joker's sleeping with _him_ , too," she said, deadpan.

"Don't be an asshole," I said with a frown. "My point is… well, I think the odds are good that he actually knows something. Or _thinks_ he does, anyway."

"Hmm," she said contemplatively. After thinking it over for a few seconds, she shrugged. "I guess it's worth looking into. I think I'd like to meet this person."

I snorted. "Yeah, well, I'm gonna remember you said that and rub it in your face once you've actually _met_ him. He's kind of annoying. He talked shit about my doctorate."

And because Pam was Pam and she had that mean sense of humor, she smiled at that, even though she clearly tried to fight it. I narrowed my eyes at her. "I'm not the only one vulnerable, _Doctor_ Isley. You just watch."

"Oh, he can try to act condescending to me. In fact, I hope he does."

I suddenly got a flash of all the grotesque ways a meeting between the two of them could turn out and shuddered. "Okay. Wow. Um… I'll look into maybe setting something up, I don't know what I can do. Just… I don't really want to _be_ there when it happens if I can help it."

"Ahh, no pressure," she said lazily, playing with a strand of hair. "I'm not worried, honestly, but I would like to see what sort of connection he found—if any—so I can avoid it happening again in the future."

"I'd ask you about your plans in the near future, but honestly, I've been talking shop for about a week straight and I just need some girl time, the kind we had before all this craziness started," I said frankly. "What movies do we have to watch?"

* * *

I left Pam's around eleven. I'd insisted on watching The Proposal, she'd pretended to be annoyed by it, _actually_ said she wanted to watch Babel instead, but I put my foot down and got my way (not in least part, I imagine, because Pam actually _liked_ The Proposal—she owned a copy, after all—but her pride dictated she needed to put up a token fight before yielding and actually letting herself enjoy it). After that, she told me plainly that she was exhausted and going to bed, and I was welcome to stay as long as I wanted but that I'd regret it if I woke her up.

I figured it was time to go back home, anyway, and after leaving her brownstone I decided to make a quick detour before going home—the 7/11 two blocks down from her apartment had ice cream, and I was feeling a strong craving for mint chocolate chip. Hell, I might even share some with the Joker, if he was a little bit nicer to me when I got back home.

I noticed the car as soon as it started prowling along the street behind me, though I didn't immediately turn to look at it—that would have given the game away. First, I made sure I was a safe block away from Pam's place: if something was about to go down, I didn't want it to be within eyeshot of her house. Next, I visualized a plan of flight. The street I was on was studded with little alleyways; two buildings down, there was one that had a fairly sturdy-looking fire escape and a low roof. It was possible that I could scale up to the top and figure out the best escape from the vantage point. It's been said that you never want to run upstairs when you're fleeing from someone, but the Joker always took particular delight in flouting that little piece of advice, and as his devoted pupil, I found myself seeking high ground when under attack as well.

My tentative plan was barely in place when the car pulled up next to me, and I stopped, slipping my hands into the pockets of my jacket and putting on a calm expression as I turned to look at the car. It was black, nondescript, probably new but not flashy at all, and the make told me nothing. I don't know what I expected as the driver side window glided down—George, maybe, as he'd pulled the same exact trick after the warehouse explosion, or maybe a couple of cigarette-smelling mustachioed detectives who wanted in on our operation now that they'd effectively busted me.

The driver looked vaguely familiar. He was strapping, with medium-dark skin and hair that he wore in a buzz cut, and he was dressed in a gray suit tailored to his broad shoulders. I couldn't place him. He wasn't one of our henchman (as if any of them ever dressed that nicely), and I was pretty sure I didn't know him from my days at Arkham or the time between my arrest and my interment there.

"Miss Quinn," he said, beginning to get out of the car. I was too curious to run outright—a foolish trait I'd developed after taking up with the Joker, who was fearless and always chose to wait and see rather than ensure his safety by running—but I still took a step back, shifting my weight and preparing to bolt if he took a single step closer to me.

"I think you might have me confused with someone else," I said, testing him.

"No, ma'am," he said frankly. He wisely didn't come any closer to me, standing with his back to the still-running car, and he leaned over and opened the back door. "Mr. Cobblepot would like to invite you to come visit him at the Iceberg Lounge."

 _Ohhh, so that's why I recognize him._ As soon as he said Cobblepot's name, I recalled that he was one of the men standing guard outside of Cobblepot's office when the Joker and I had first met the man in question. _Well, at least now I know I'm not going to get arrested… though I'm not sure this is much better._

I met the guy's eyes. " _Invite_?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Which means I'm free to decline it if I wish to?"

"He would be disappointed if you chose to do so," the guy admitted. "But I'm sure he'd understand. You're a busy woman."

I folded my arms and pretended to think about it—I didn't think the guy would be very amused if he discovered that the only _business_ I had planned for that night was buying and then devouring a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, but he didn't need to know any of that. All I knew was that it wouldn't do to accept Cobblepot's invitation too hastily, so I deliberated for a few seconds before inclining my head, yielding. "What the hell. I told him I'd visit, no time like the present," I said, and strode over and got into the car. The driver closed the door securely behind me, then climbed back in behind the wheel and took off.

I got comfortable, sliding into the center of the seat so that I could see everything clearly, forgoing a seatbelt out of pure habit (you were liable to get laughed at if you wore a seatbelt while riding shotgun next to the Joker, and, following that, he'd prove to you that you could still get pretty damn hurt _while_ wearing it). As we cruised smoothly towards the Diamond District, I looked at the driver's face in the rearview mirror and asked, "What's your name?"

He glanced up, meeting my eyes briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "Matthew."

It didn't surprise me that the Penguin didn't insist on bestowing his henchmen with nicknames—the Joker liked to rename ours if they stuck around long enough, and for the most part, they stuck by their monikers. The Penguin seemed like he'd think that was undignified, though. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the shoulders of the front seats.

"Nice to meet you, Matthew. How'd you know how to find me?" This was actually more of a point of concern than I was letting on. If the Penguin or his men could find me whenever they wanted to, then who was to say that the cops couldn't? Did they know where we were hiding out, or was it tied to Pam in some way (which was even more worrisome—I really didn't want to endanger her in any way)?

Matthew turned his head slightly, shoulders tensing, clearly not fully comfortable with me leaning against his backrest and encroaching on his personal space, and it took me a second to remember— _oh, yeah, I kill people sometimes._ It made sense that to someone who didn't know me, someone whose boss hopefully thought I was a lot more lethal than I actually was, I might come across as a little nerve-racking.

However, he regained his professionalism quickly, shoulders squaring as he turned his face front again immediately. "I really can't say, ma'am." Damn, but the Penguin had good help. I wondered where he found these guys and what he was paying them. Our guys weren't half as polite. Of course, the Joker didn't care about their manners, whereas I got the impression that within the Iceberg Lounge, manners were somewhat sacred. Hell, maybe our guys could manage civility if the options were be polite or get fired. _Or shot. Maybe I should try that…_

I stashed that thought away for later and tilted my head a little, angling my mouth so that it was in line with his ear (though keeping it an appropriate several inches away—I didn't want to give him the wrong impression), and I asked quietly, "Can't, won't, or were ordered not to?"

He met my eyes in the rearview mirror, and I didn't see a trace of anything in them as he replied: "Take your pick. Ma'am."

I grinned and leaned back. _Good help, indeed_. "Ah, well. It was worth a try. I'll ask Cobblepot when we get there."

"That's probably a wise idea."

From that point on, the ride was silent. Fortunately, it didn't last long—the Diamond District where the lounge was located was only a few miles south of Pam's neighborhood, and it was late enough at night that traffic was forgiving. Before long, we were pulling into a back alley that I recognized from the last time I was here.

"Does this building even _have_ a front entrance?" I asked sardonically as Matthew opened the car door for me and I climbed out.

"It does, but Mr. Cobblepot thought you'd prefer the discretion of the back entrance. Fewer cameras. Considerably less crowded," Matthew pointed out.

"Yes, and I'm certain Mr. Cobblepot wouldn't want to deal with the _interesting_ questions that people would start to ask him if Harley Quinn was spotted entering his establishment," I said, giving him a conspiratorial grin. He didn't look amused at all, totally stonefaced as he opened the back door for me, but hey, not everyone had a sense of humor. For my part, I kept on smirking shamelessly as I swept past him.

The kitchen was twice as busy as it had been upon my first visit, and no one gave me a second glance. I looked over my shoulder at Matthew and said, "So is this place a nightclub or a restaurant?"

"A bit of both," he answered briefly, touching my shoulder and pointing to indicate that I should keep moving. Obligingly, I went.

I exited the kitchen into the lounge proper, where the night was in full swing, and I realized as I did that I'd been a little bit wrong in my assessment of the lounge earlier. I'd charted it up as being little more than an expensive nightclub, and I suppose that technically it _was_ —but it wasn't exactly the kind of club Pam and I used to visit, with throbbing music to match your heartbeat and get your energy up and teeming throngs of young people everywhere. No, the clientele here was a little older and a lot better-dressed, and they moved with less desperation and a lot more calculation. The music alone signified the drastic difference between the Iceberg Lounge and every other nightclub in Gotham—the speakers thudded out festive swing music remixed to include electronic beats, at once evocative of an older time and place and vibrantly, unmistakably modern.

I had to admit, I was impressed. Cobblepot knew how to set a scene and attract the kind of crowd that he liked, that was clear enough. This club was designed for rich, clever people, the sort of person Cobblepot saw himself as (or the sort of person he _wanted_ to be), and as I looked over the crowd, that was the only sort of person I saw.

I didn't have too long to stand by the door and observe. In seconds, I approached by the same lemon-faced man who had greeted us last time. "Miss Quinn," he said, somehow pitching his voice to carry past the music without shouting. "If you would please follow me?"

I nodded at him, and he turned and led me along the edge of the club and then up a glistening glass staircase, which deposited us into a smaller area studded with little alcoves, were people were clustered in smaller groups of twos and threes, drinking and eating dishes that probably cost more than the combination of all my meals at Arkham. Cobblepot's guy took me to one of these little alcoves and gestured to the seat. "Please."

"Thank you," I said, seating myself.

"Can I offer you anything to drink?"

I paused, giving it half a second's thought, then asked, "Pinot noir, if you don't mind, the driest you have."

If I hadn't been watching for it, I'd have missed the slight twitch of his eyebrows before he ducked his head in acknowledgment and glided away. It was the reaction I was hoping for, the one I hoped I'd get from Cobblepot. In my experience, people, especially rich people, associated red wine with a certain kind of person—and, I'd come to find, the dryer the wine, the more they seemed to hold you in high regard. It was bullshit, of course—Pam was the smartest person I knew, and her wine of choice was a simple eighteen-dollar bottle of Chardonnay. Myself, I preferred the sweeter blush wines. Still, if it helped to set me up as the femme fatale who was pulling the Joker's strings, I was willing to give it a shot.

He was back in moments, rolling a bottle of wine in a gleaming ice bucket to the table, producing a glass, and uncorking the wine deftly, pouring a small portion for my approval. I took an obliging sip, nodded my approval (as if I could tell the difference between nice wines and the moderately cheap types Pam and I enjoyed), and he filled the glass and then neatly settled the bottle back in its bed of ice. "Mr. Cobblepot will be along shortly," he told me.

"Thank you," I said again, and he actually bowed before leaving.

I took a second to absorb the new surroundings. This was clearly a more exclusive area than the floor below—it was populated mostly by extremely well-dressed men accompanied by much-younger women decked in glistening jewels. I made a note of that for later. When things inevitably went bad with Cobblepot, provided that the Iceberg survived, it would be a great target for when we were running low on cash—all we'd need to do is get past security, fire a few shotgun blasts into the ceiling, and collect the ample portion of gems and cash this crowd was carrying.

I sat sipping at my wine for a few minutes, and then Cobblepot showed up. I saw him well before he reached my table—he appeared at the top of the stairs, then proceeded to schmooze with the inhabitants of every alcove he passed, every inch the benevolent host. If I had a hat, I'd have tipped it to him: he played his part beautifully. No one would guess that he was anything but a delightfully amicable and wildly successful businessman.

Finally, he reached my table, and I stood to greet him. "Oh, Miss _Quinn_ ," he exclaimed in delight, ignoring my extended hand and instead taking hold of my shoulders and planting a dry peck on my cheek. If the circumstances had been any different, I'd have planted a fist in his gut, unused to such familiarity, but I knew how I needed to play this and managed to smear a bright smile across my face as he leaned back. "It's wonderful to see you—and may I say, you're even lovelier without the makeup."

"I have to say, I love the place," I said, sidestepping the unsought compliment neatly. "It's so different when it's open for business."

"Oh," he said, fanning my words away modestly and gesturing to my seat. "Shall we?"

I sat down, and as he maneuvered himself into the chair opposite, I said, "Are you sure you should be calling me that, though? I mean, here?"

"What? Miss Quinn?" He chuckled and then pursed his lips dismissively. "Believe me—some of the people on this floor have secrets worse than any _you_ keep."

I raised my eyebrows skeptically. "Is that so."

"Oh, yes. Part of the appeal of the lounge," he said confidentially. "We don't care what the papers say about the people who are frequently in attendance here. As long as they conduct themselves like ladies and gentlemen, they're welcome here."

 _As long as they have the money to throw around, too, I bet_ , I thought, but kept that to myself. As I took a sip of my wine, the man who'd led me to the table reappeared at Cobblepot's elbow holding a case. He opened it to reveal an assortment of cigars in a neat row, and Cobblepot glanced at me. "Do you mind, my dear?"

"Not at all," I said, inclining my head, and he selected a cigar from the case, clipping the end and propping it in the corner of his mouth. His man lit it, and Cobblepot took a puff or two before waving his hand dismissively.

"Thank you, Robert, that will be all," he said, and Robert closed the case and ghosted away immediately.

Cobblepot puffed his cigar, I sipped my wine, and we regarded each other for a moment while the music swung away in the background. His eyes drifted across the floor, and he said casually, "Yes, I'm actually quite proud of how far the Lounge has come in the past few months. We've built up quite the clientele."

I smiled and lifted my glass slightly. "Congratulations."

His eyes cut to me, and he regarded me for a thoughtful second before asking, "How is your partner?"

I shrugged noncommittally, stepping neatly into my role. "Doubtless somewhere up to no good. He promised me he wouldn't maim too many people."

"Think he'll keep his word?"

I widened my eyes innocently. "Of course. Why wouldn't he?"

Cobblepot chuckled, though I didn't miss the hard little glint in his eye that surfaced for a split second in immediate response to my question. "A fair point. He _does_ seem quite devoted to you."

I inclined my head modestly, playing with my wine glass. Cobblepot rested his cigar arm on the table, leaning forward slightly. "In fact—and I hope you don't find this an intrusive question, but I'm quite curious—he doesn't seem the sort to form… lasting attachments."

"He isn't," I said flatly, meeting his eyes.

"Right. But you're clearly the exception."

"That's debatable."

"Oh, I don't think it is," he said immediately and lowly, and I kept my face carefully schooled to hide any sign of triumph. _Hook, line, and sinker_. "I observed him during our meeting earlier, Miss Quinn; he quite dotes on you."

Again playing up the modesty, I lifted my shoulder in a half-shrug and took a sip of wine. "I'm a big fan of his as well," I said, returning my glass to the table.

"Yes," he said, staring at me thoughtfully. I was just beginning to wonder if we were going to get to the point sometime that night when he leaned back and cleared his throat. "I must confess, his attachment to you is part of why I schemed to have you brought here tonight alone."

I lifted an eyebrow. "Yes, before we get to that—how exactly _did_ you find me?"

He gave that little placating chuckle of his. "Oh, I hope I didn't make you nervous."

"A little bit," I said without a smile, holding his gaze. "I'm sure you understand—it's important that I'm able to remain hidden when I need to. If that ability has been compromised…"

"Fair point," he said, showing his fat white palm in surrender. "I simply have a source—not allied with the law and in no way interested in endangering your operation—who has noted your presence in that particular neighborhood enough to assure me it would be worth posting Matthew there in the evenings to keep a lookout."

"Yeah, that's—not really reassuring."

"Oh, Miss Quinn," he said, switching immediately into a soothing, conciliatory tone as he reached out and covered my hand with his soft one—I fought the immediate impulse to jerk mine away and instead put on a small smile as he said earnestly, "I only hoped to meet with you, and since that was the only shade of hope I had in catching you alone, I followed through. It wasn't my intention to make you nervous in the slightest."

 _I'm going to have to see how well Pam responds to the idea of moving to a different neighborhood_ , I thought, but all I said was, "I suppose if all you wanted was to see _me_ , I can forgive you."

He laughed pleasantly and drew his hand back. I tried not to think too much about what the Joker would have to say to me when he realized my patterns had apparently been noted.

Cobblepot took another moment to puff on his cigar and observe his club before getting back to the conversation. "I wanted to congratulate you on the stunt you and your partner pulled the other night. Kidnapping the Commissioner's children?" He laughed cheerfully, though again, I caught that hard little flash in his beady eyes, and I started to piece together the _real_ purpose of this little rendezvous. I was suddenly glad I'd packed that revolver. "Absolutely outrageous. Exactly the sort of thing I hoped for when I approached you, and I commend you."

"I wish I could take the credit for it."

"Oh, but I hear you did more than your part," he said, tilting his head and looking at me from beneath significantly lifted brows. "Or is there some other small blonde woman swiping children for your organization?"

I put on a slightly bashful smile, and he smiled in return, but his expression faded slowly as he looked at me. Thoughtfully, he spun the cigar between his fingertips, knocked the ash into the tray on the table, and finally, he got to the point: "Unfortunately, my operation that same night wasn't quite as swimmingly successful."

I raised my eyebrows. "Oh?"

"No," he said, and the fact that his tone was devoid of any sort of fake regret, was flat and serious and, I believe, perfectly genuine for the first time that night made me go on alert. I kept my shoulders and face as relaxed as possible, but I was very aware of the gun in my bag and exactly how many movements it would take to free it should I need to.

"No," he continued, "my men were… ambushed in the process of doing their work. Slaughtered, in fact. Then, in an utterly mindless act that I can't get my head around, the—ahem—the _shipment_ they were receiving was blown to smithereens."

I frowned. "What was in the shipment?"

He gestured impatiently with his cigar. "A number of different things. An assortment of items of great value, let's say."

I stared at my glass with my brows knitted in a look of thoughtful confusion. "Well, that doesn't make sense."

"No. It's quite _non_ sensical, as a matter of fact." His tone made me look at him. His expression was blank except for the slightly narrowed eyes, and that hard little look was back, only this time, he didn't pull it back and hide it behind geniality. "Some might call it an act of chaos."

It was time for me to 'catch on,' and I dropped my hand from my glass to the table, leaning back against the chair. "You think J did it," I said in a tone of flat disbelief.

"Now, I didn't say that," he said, ever the diplomat. "However, the nature of the crime does make one wonder. This would hardly be the first time he turned on a business partner."

"Yes, I seem to remember we addressed that issue in our initial meeting," I said, giving him a hard stare.

"Miss Quinn, don't take offense, please. I simply wish to ask you—indeed, as a responsible business man, I must ask you: did the Joker have anything to do with it?"

I folded my lips together and knit my brow, going for an expression of thoughtful concern as I tapped at the base of my glass with an index fingernail. After I deemed an appropriate amount of time had passed, I looked up to find him scrutinizing me with those narrowed eyes, like I was a particularly challenging puzzle that he felt he was seconds away from cracking. I shook my head. "Look, it would be crazy for me to think I know everything he's up to. I can only tell you what I know, Mr. Cobblepot, and what I know is that he and I were working together on the _other_ project that night—in an effort to _help_ you. It's terrible that something went wrong with your operation, but… if it had anything to do with him, I'd be _extremely_ surprised."

Not for the first time, I was thankful that living with the Joker necessitated that I become a good liar. Cobblepot seemed to relent just a bit, his eyes turning slightly less suspicious. He puffed on his cigar, exhaled a cloud of ugly-smelling smoke, then said, "And there's no way he could have done both in one night?"

I held his gaze unabashedly as I said, "Believe me, I'd have noticed if he'd stepped out for a _second_."

Cobblepot cleared his throat abruptly. "Ah, yes, well. And—your help?"

I shook my head. "They don't do so well on their own. If you're not inclined to take my word for it, then trust human greed—they would never have blown up that shipment. They'd have squirreled it all away for themselves."

Cobblepot stared at me for a long span of seconds, and I returned his gaze—not playing up the innocence, not keeping my face perfectly blank, just painting on an expression of slight concern but strong determination that I hoped would convince him. After a moment, he sighed. "Well. I hope you won't begrudge me for wondering. After all, your paramour's calling card _does_ seem to be the random act of chaos."

"I'm not disputing that at _all_ ," I acknowledged. "But in this case, it just doesn't add up." I paused, then decided to stoke the flames a little. "Not to mention I _really_ wanted everything to go smoothly. We don't exactly have many connections to smart people who see things our way, and I thought that our organizations could really benefit one another. Of course, now I expect you'd like to sever ties with us rather than risk another failure," I said, sounding a little bit mournful.

Cobblepot studied me for a split second and then abruptly said, "No, not at all. It would hardly be fair to terminate our association based on the breath of unfounded suspicion."

I let my eyes light up. "You think so?"

"Oh, of course. After all, there's no one quite like the two of you, and certainly no one capable of making such a big splash—which is what I need, after all." Cobblepot put out his cigar in the ash tray and stood abruptly. "May I show you something, Miss Quinn?"

The abrupt shift of gears threw me off a little bit, and I judged it appropriate to show a little bit of wariness, though I got to my feet gamely enough. "Is it something I'll like?"

"Oh, I think that's fair to say," he said, offering his arm. I linked mine through his, hiding my sudden reluctance and glad that my bag was hanging at my opposite hip, so he wouldn't be able to feel the weapons inside as we walked.

We headed downstairs, and my nervousness increased as he escorted me into the hallway that I recognized as leading to his office. The bad feeling only grew when he paused to open a door that led straight into a dark downward staircase, and I stopped, slipping free of him and giving him a dubious look. "Mr. Cobblepot, with respect, my mother taught me not to go into dark basements with men."

His affable face was back on, and he tittered that soothing laugh of his again. "I'll warrant that it seems shady, but please, Miss Quinn—I give you my word as a gentleman, nothing nasty will happen to you."

Not reassured, I glanced back down the hallway towards the door we'd come through, only to see that another bulky security guard had appeared and was blocking it. _Shit_. I glanced back at Cobblepot, who gave me an earnest look and said, "I simply wish to show you something—something that will be beneficial to our continuing business relationship."

Not like I have a choice, I thought, and Cobblepot knew it, too, because he turned and started to descend the stairs. I glanced back at the security guy, decided that shooting him would probably be overkill given that I didn't _know_ that I was in danger, and, with a sigh, I followed.

The staircase ended at a doorway, which Cobblepot opened with a flourish. The room beyond was brightly lit, with stunning white walls and a white concrete floor and absolutely nothing to distract from the man who was chained up in the center.

I stepped into the room, feeling my stomach sink as I took in the sight. The man's hands were shackled by chains that were bolted to the ceiling, his feet were bound, his mouth was duct-taped shut, and his shirtless torso was covered in large, fresh bruises. His face was masked by old blood, making it hard to get a good read on him, but he looked about middle aged, in decent shape, and he lifted his head slightly as we entered the room.

Matthew stood off to the side, holding a box. I noted the drains set periodically along the concrete floor and the hose rolled neatly up at the back wall, and I knew with certainty that nothing good had ever happened in this room.

Cobblepot's tone was still as bright and cheerful as ever as he said, "Miss Quinn, this is Mr. Davis Steele. Mr. Steele, this is _the_ Harley Quinn—I'm sure you know of her." He approached Matthew, who opened the box on cue. Steele locked eyes with me, but didn't bother to make any noises against the duct tape.

"Mr. Steele is a business associate of mine," said Cobblepot, pulling a long, black rubber glove out of the box and working it onto his arm, up to the elbow. "Well. I should say _former_ associate." He reached into the box again and then turned to me, and I saw that he had pulled out a big, curved knife with an ugly black blade and was holding it in his gloved hand. "See, not long ago, Mr. Steele began embezzling the holdings he was entrusted with." He glanced at Steele disapprovingly and gestured with the knife. "Bad for business. Worse—it isn't conduct befitting a gentleman."

This was going nowhere good, and fast. I summoned all the calm I could, putting on a serious but unaffected expression as I watched them silently.

Cobblepot approached Steele, tilting his head and clicking his tongue. "A real shame, actually. You had such talent, Davis—but I can't tolerate such disrespect. It sets a standard, you see. You understand."

Steele groaned something rendered completely incomprehensible through the tape, and Cobblepot nodded knowingly. "I knew you would," he said, then stepped to the side, reached out, and plunged the knife into Steele's stomach.

Steele screamed powerfully enough that even the duct tape didn't do much to stifle it. Cobblepot didn't flinch, burying the blade up to the hilt in his gut and then, with one powerful wrench, jerking it from one side of his stomach to the other, opening the flesh up in a gaping, bloody slit. Steele kept screaming, and I forced myself to keep my face totally under control as Cobblepot pulled the knife free and then tossed it carelessly behind him—it slid across the floor, leaving a wide, bloody streak.

Cobblepot wasn't finished. With his gloved fingers, he probed at the slit, then buried his hand past the wrist inside. I had to bite my lip hard enough to draw blood to stop myself from ordering him to _knock it off, seriously, just shoot the guy in the fucking head_ , and Steele's screams redoubled as Cobblepot fished around for a second or two before yanking his arm back, now holding a handful of Steele's intestines. He examined the pulpy mass, then, quite unconcernedly, he dropped them to the floor, where they landed in a bloody, slithery heap, still connected by several long coils to Steele's torso.

Steele's screams had stopped abruptly. I don't know if he was already dead or just unconscious and dying, but either way, I was glad. It was only exposure to several horrendously gruesome kills enacted at the Joker's hands that allowed me to hold on to my stomach, but it had been quite a while since I had seen something so brutal, and somehow, seeing Cobblepot commit such savagery was much worse. I couldn't put my finger on exactly why, except maybe that the Joker never pretend to be anything but animal in his viciousness, whereas Cobblepot's veneer of civility was so strong and shining that it was something of a shock to see him do something like that without warning.

Cobblepot pulled off the glove, tossing it over to join the knife, then caught sight of his shoes, which had been spattered with blood. "Oh, for the love of God," he growled, lifting a shoe to look closer at it. "This is Italian leather," he huffed in exasperation before shaking his head and sighing. "Ah, well. Nothing for it, I suppose. Leave it to Mr. Steele to inconvenience me one more time on his way out."

He then turned and looked at me, and I, keeping my voice strong and clear, spoke for the first time since I entered the room: "Mr. Cobblepot, just so we're clear—are you threatening me?"

He looked genuinely shocked. " _Threatening_ you? Oh, no, no, my dear Miss Quinn, I wouldn't _dream_ of it. This wasn't a threat, nor was it a warning. No—think of it as a business courtesy."

"A business courtesy," I said, tilting my head doubtfully.

He smiled. "Yes, indeed. Before we proceed, I wanted you to see firsthand that I take my business _very_ seriously. I don't tolerate underhanded dealings among my associates, and my means of handling such dealings are very… strict. Most people aren't privy to this information in advance, you understand, but with your line of work, and that of your partner's—well, I thought you might understand."

"I do," I said, studying his smiling face and gnawing thoughtfully on my lip. "I understand completely."

And I did. I suddenly understood that it would be in my best interest—and the Joker's—if I drew my gun right then, shot Cobblepot, shot Matthew, and got the hell out of there, gunning down anyone who got in my way. I was visualizing the exact moves I should make, and my hand twitched towards my purse, but the exact second I made to draw my gun, the door burst open behind me, and I swung around to see Robert, deathly pale and breathless.

"Boss," he said, eyes fixed on Cobblepot, "we've got trouble."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betting pool on the exact source of the trouble?
> 
> Ozzy's starting to show some colors now, and the fun only continues in the next chapter. In fact, things are going to hurtle along pretty quickly from this point on- now that Cobblepot knows enough to be suspicious, the amount of available moves on the gameboard between them is decreasing rapidly. So-- fun, right?!
> 
> Till next time. :)


	16. hit 'em right between the eyes

_And now you steal away_  
_Take him out today_  
_Nice work you did_  
_You're gonna go far, kid  
_

**-The Offspring, You're Gonna Go Far, Kid ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mCAhUpvXNs))  
**

"Boss, we've got trouble."

Cobblepot didn't look concerned by the news so much as distinctly annoyed by the interruption. "What _kind_ of trouble?"

Robert glanced at me, at Steele's body still strung up and oozing, then back at Cobblepot. "Bat trouble."

Cobblepot didn't react beyond a slight twitching of his eyebrows. "Here? _Now_?"

"Security ran into him on the roof. He seems to be working his way downstairs."

Cobblepot released an irritated sigh. "And we've got _such_ a good crowd tonight. One can only hope he has the consideration to use the back stairs; I can't have him frightening away my clientele."

I glanced from the totally calm Cobblepot to the gruesome spectacle of Steele's body and back again, suddenly forming a few professional opinions about him and the lens through which he viewed the world, which was _fucking crazy._ I kept the thought to myself, though, folding my arms and waiting to see how he handled it.

Cobblepot finally acknowledged the body, if only to gesture dismissively at it. "Doubtless he's here because of _that_. Matthew, get rid of it—I'll send someone else to clean up. Robert—escort Miss Quinn out the back way, _without_ crossing paths with the Batman, if you can help it. I'll enlist more security to slow his pace. Miss Quinn, I regret the abrupt ending to our meeting, but alas—"

"Batman stops crushing skulls for no man, I get it," I said, perhaps a bit too brightly—I couldn't help being relieved that this encounter was ending, even if it was solely due to the intervention of a guy who wanted _everyone_ in jail and preferred sending them there by way of his fists.

"Tell the Joker I'll be in touch," he said, locking eyes with me. " _Do_ tell him everything I told you."

 _Oh, believe me, he'll hear about it,_ I thought, but just gave him a bright smile, said goodbye, and followed Robert out of the room.

"There's a network of offices and hallways situated beyond the lounge itself that opens into the side street," Robert told me as we ascended the stairs, away from the stench of blood and death that had started to accumulate in the Penguin's little murder room. "I'll lead you out that way."

"Sounds like a solid plan," I said agreeably.

And it was. Only at some point, Batman had made his way down from the roof and had entered the building, probably en route to the basement, given the fact that we ran into him the abruptly after turning the second corner. Fortunately, more of Cobblepot's security had already intercepted him, so he was a bit too preoccupied to pay much attention to me. _Un_ fortunately, their brawling was blocking the hallway.

Robert seemed paralyzed at the sight, so I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back to cover around the corner, out of sight. "Quick check—the way out is through the door at the end of the hall?"

"Y-yes," stammered Robert. I took a better look at him. He'd turned a sickly shade of white and looked petrified. On behalf of the Joker, I was offended—Robert hadn't looked half this frightened of _him_. At least with Batman, you knew he probably wasn't going to _kill_ you.

_Permanently maim you, at worst._

"I'm guessing you're not much of a fighter," I said wryly, opening the nearest door to me, then the next one down—bingo, broom closet.

"Not—not really."

"That's fine," I said, grabbing him by the arm and wrestling him into the closet. "Stay in there and don't make noise," I added, then closed the door on him.

Alone and free to act as I chose for the first time since I left Pam's, I reviewed my options. I could double back, exit through the club or find some other back way. That would certainly be the _sensible_ choice.

But honestly, I had that grenade in my purse, and I wanted to see what would happen if I used it. Batman had armor enough to save his life, and Cobblepot's men wouldn't be any great loss, so I stooped down with my back against the wall, slinging my bag from my shoulder and rummaging through it. The grenade practically jumped into my hand. _Like it was meant to be_ , I thought, grinning, and I pulled the pin. I counted to three, running down the time so they'd have less opportunity to react if they saw it coming, then popped my head around the corner and threw it right into their midst.

If they saw it and raised the alarm, I didn't know—I'd ducked back behind cover and jammed my fingers into my ears the second I lost contact with the grenade. Even so, I heard the sickening thud signifying the explosion almost instantly—actually a little too soon for comfort. I made a mental note to wait for only two seconds next time even as the dust and plaster rained against my back.

I gave it a few seconds for the air to clear, then cautiously took my fingers from my ears. I didn't hear anything; that was a good sign. I rose to my feet and peeked around the corner.

 _Well, it doesn't look like any of them managed to get to cover._ The explosion had flattened them all, including Batman, who at least looked as if he had spotted the grenade in time to at least _try_ to flee from it, based on the fact that he'd been knocked over face-first further down the hallway than any of the others. That was my cue. I strode briskly through, picking my way around and over the bloodied men.

Batman managed to turn himself over as I passed, groaning as he settled onto his back—the explosion had bitten holes into his cape, but his armor was intact, so he was probably one great big bruise but no worse. His eyes were open but glazed—I don't know if he even recognized me. "We gotta stop meeting like this," I murmured, hopping over him and continuing to the door.

I was approximately two feet from the exit when the guilt kicked in. I got a sudden burst of vivid memory—that wet tearing sound of Cobblepot gutting Steele—and I paused, looking over my shoulder. Batman hadn't moved. Annoyed with myself, I blew a stray strand of hair out of my eyes. _This isn't the first time he's been knocked out on a job, I bet,_ I reasoned with myself. _He's a big boy, he knows the risks, he can take care of himself._

 _But then, I doubt he's ever gotten hit with a grenade in the middle of a night club belonging to a twisted politician-looking fuck with his own torture chamber in the basement and backup due any second._ I frowned, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth. I was feeling more friendly than usual towards the Bat due to our little interlude with the children; I didn't want to imagine what Cobblepot would do if he caught him stunned and defensive like this.

_J will be furious if Cobblepot gets him and unmasks or kills him._

That decided it. "I can't _believe_ I'm doing this," I growled, but I couldn't deny a certain lightness of heart as I stomped my way back to him. "All right, let's go," I snapped as I stooped next to him and grabbed his arms. "Oof, you're heavy. Come _on,_ fatty, you gotta help me out a little bit. Stand up."

He dragged his feet and settled them beneath him as I tried to pull him upright, still with that glazed look in his eyes and sluggishly enough that I suspected he'd suffered a concussion as well, but there was no time to confirm it right then and there. _At least he's making some effort to help me out_ , I thought as I slung his armored arm over my shoulders—the guy must have been upwards of two-twenty, and given that the Joker was probably over fifty pounds lighter and I still had trouble lugging _him_ around when I had to… well, it was good to have Batman pitching in a little bit.

"Just… _try_ not to hit me until we're free of the Iceberg, okay? I'm not gonna hurt you," I said as I started shuffling us towards the door. "I mean. Beyond the grenade, but I think my helping you out right now cancels that out, so let's just call it a clean slate, huh?"

I was starting to hear slamming doors further back in the building. I flung the exit open and helped Batman out into the dark side street—which was empty.

We wouldn't get very far on foot. I took a second to adjust my grip on Batman and take note of my surroundings. The open street was to the right, so I turned and headed us towards the back alley. Batman managed to keep his feet moving, but he leaned heavily on me and didn't seem to be recovering quickly. "That's okay, big guy," I muttered as we went along. "Concussions are nasty business. Just stay with me until—a _ha_!" We'd turned the corner to see that the car Matthew had driven me in was still parked in the back alley.

I hustled toward it and pulled on the passenger door handle. It came open easily, and I breathed a whisper of thanks for mobster peons who had way too much confidence in the authority of their bosses to take proper precautions with said bosses' property, then deposited Batman into the passenger seat. He practically fell in; I gathered up the remnants of his cape and tucked them in at his feet, then closed the door on him and circled around to the driver's side.

My luck stuttered a bit when I got behind the wheel. Matthew might have been so certain that no one would steal one of the Penguin's cars behind the Penguin's club that he didn't lock the doors, but he wasn't so confident that he left the keys in. However, it was just a momentary hiccup. I scrabbled around in my purse for a second, emerged with the switchblade, flicked it open, and jammed it into the ignition. One sharp twist later, and the car purred to life. Sure, the ignition would be ruined after this, but it wasn't exactly any skin off my nose.

"Okay, buddy," I said, gripping Batman's headrest and checking behind me as I threw the car into reverse, "just hold on and we'll get out of here."

Batman stirred, blinked hard, and looked at me as if he was just seeing me for the first time. He shook his head, and as I pulled backwards out of the alleyway and merged onto the main road, he twisted to look behind him. "Wait. Go back," he rasped in a voice that sounded roughly like if bears could talk and were always _super_ pissed-off.

And despite the fact that I was in no mood to get punched in the face by Batman, I tilted my head slightly towards him, didn't let off the gas for even a second, and said, "Nnnnnn-nope."

"Wh—" He was suddenly arrested by a fit of chesty coughing that had him bent double in the passenger seat, and I pulled a sympathetic face.

"Plaster dust? Again, I'm… mostly sorry about the grenade." I didn't go into detail, because I didn't think he needed to know that I hadn't been _forced_ to throw it so much as felt it was the most effective and direct solution to the problem at hand.

He crashed back against his seat, still blinking like he was trying to make his eyes focus. He must have still been pretty concussed—as if the fact that he wasn't hitting me yet was telling enough, he seemed to have a bit of a problem grasping what was going on. "Why are _you_ here?"

"That would be telling," I said, gratefully pulling onto the highway and checking my rearview to see if we'd been followed. So far, there was no sign of a tail—I don't imagine anyone in the Iceberg thought they needed to worry about me and Batman teaming up.

 _Which isn't what this is_ , I reminded myself, then frowned and chewed thoughtfully on my lip as that thought continued to the logical next step: _so what is it?_

I hadn't really planned it through. What was I going to do with my boyfriend's nemesis, who I currently had in my passenger seat all weak and floppy with a head injury?

"Are you trying to take me to him?" he asked, as though aware of my train of thought—though that would be ridiculous, of course; he probably didn't even know where we _were_ at that point, let alone what I was thinking. He did bring up an interesting question, though.

A question it took me less than a second to answer. "No," I told him, glancing sideways at him before returning my attention to the road. A light drizzle had started falling sometime in the last few minutes, and puddles were starting to form on the road, reflecting the lights of the city.

"Why not?" That monstrous voice had slipped just a little bit—it was still deep and raspy, but I got the sense that he was hurt and worn out enough to not expend quite as much effort on it. At the very least, he seemed to be channeling the effort elsewhere: as he spoke, he was shifting in his seat, trying to sit up straight, movements that made me nervous (to say the least). I glanced sharply at him, trying to determine if he was about to sucker punch me, but judging from the looseness of his shoulders and the tense, pained curl of his mouth, he'd judged that he was safe for the immediate moment, which made _me_ safe for the immediate moment.

 _Yeah, Harley, why not?_ I recognized that train of thought for the trap it potentially was and cut it off with the most obvious answer, which also happened to be true: "He doesn't want you gift-wrapped and delivered to him, right? He tried that before. It bored the shit out of him. He'd probably yell at me, apologize to you, put you into a cab and send you home." I said it sarcastically, but even as the words left my mouth I realized that they were absolutely true.

Batman let loose a muted grunt and lifted the arm closest to me, and I jumped, curling my fist and lifting my elbow in an automatic defensive gesture, but he was only reaching up to grip at his head through the cowl. "So then where _are_ we going?"

"Yeah, I'm trying to figure that one out myself," I muttered, glancing warily at him. Where the hell was I supposed to take a guy whose sole purpose seemed to be wrecking things for me and mine? More importantly, how was I supposed to drop him _anywhere_ without him immediately turning on me? Right now the head injury combined with the fact that he wasn't in any immediate danger seemed to be slowing him down, but if it got to a point where I was prepared to bail and get away free and clear… well, I doubted he'd just sit by and let me go, regardless of the fact that I'd just pulled him out of a _very_ messy situation. Speaking of that…

I turned to frown at him and asked, "Hey, what were you doing at Cobblepot's place, anyway? It wasn't for _me,_ you didn't even know I was _there_ till I picked you up. So what?"

For a long moment he was silent, and I thought he was going to tell me to mind my own business, but then: "A… known associate of his went missing early this morning. Cobblepot's business partners tend to do that. He cares a lot about that lounge and making it a safe place for the scumbags who frequent it, so…"

"So you showing your face and making things a little less comfortable for his clientele gives you leverage," I concluded, nodding. "Smart, but I don't think you need it at this point. Was the associate's name Davis Steele?"

With effort, he turned to stare at me. Having those eyes on me made me uneasy, so as soon as he confirmed with a grunt I told him what I knew, figuring it wouldn't do any harm and might earn me some brownie points in the process: "Yeah, that guy's dead. I watched Cobblepot eviscerate him just a few seconds before you showed up."

He sat up a little straighter, glancing over his shoulder, and, following his train of thought, I said, "Whoa, there, champ—I know what you're thinking, but trust me, going back there isn't going to help and it sure as hell might hurt. I don't know what you know about Cobblepot's operation, but from what I've seen, they're well-oiled, well-disciplined, and _very_ efficient. Steele's long gone by now, as well as any evidence of what happened. Cobblepot called for backup—backup _beyond_ the guys you were fighting already—and you're not exactly in a position to fight through them right now, given, y'know, the head injury."

"You mean the head injury that _you_ gave me?" he growled, deadpan, and for the first time I got a sense of dry almost-not-humor from him.

I shot him a quick look and said, "We went over this already. I _did_ throw the grenade, but in my defense, you were between me and the way out, and also— _hello,_ I'm taking you to safety right now, so as far as I'm concerned, we're even."

He rolled his head around to look at me again. I could tell he still wasn't at a hundred percent, but those dark eyes hidden in the cowl seemed to be glowing just a bit brighter now. It was worrisome, a sentiment that only increased as he asked his next question: "Why?"

"Why, what?" I asked, though I got an uncomfortable feeling I knew where this is going. _No, Bats, no thank you, let's not examine my motives here, why can't you just be like me and be comfortable with the idea that I'm acting on impulse?_

Sure enough: "So why did you pull me out of there?" He asked like he wasn't expecting an honest answer, or an answer at all, really. If the conversation was being held in a vacuum, if all I had to worry about was my preference, I wouldn't have answered. However, I was hyper-aware that this was a guy who could send me back to jail without much effort—hell, that was what he _did_. He may have been concussed, but I still didn't feel like I had the upper hand (a thought that sparked a protest from my rational mind, which wanted to know again _exactly what I thought I was doing_ —I silenced it before it got very far and kicked me into panic mode).

I got a distinct sense that it was only the continuing conversation that was keeping him from punching me right in the head, and so, reluctantly, I kept it going: "You mean aside from the fact that J would be very unhappy if he found out that I just _left_ you with a guy who I'd just witnessed gutting someone else?"

"That isn't the only reason," Batman growled, and I snorted.

"No shit." I cast him a sideways glance as I worked up my nerve and then, keeping my tone as light and noncommittal as possible, I said, "You saved me, too, once. Remember?"

He didn't respond, and I kept talking, because the silence was freaking me out. "Yeah, snatched me right out of the air and got me safely to the roof of a parking garage." I chuckled. "Then you proceeded to _leave_ me there to walk home through the Narrows alone, but I guess I can't blame you too much. You had a lot on your mind at the time."

He wasn't responding. I glanced at him to find that he was staring at me, and, figuring I followed his train of thought, I added, "I also don't blame you if you regret doing it now, but—"

"I don't regret it," he broke in gruffly, then, immediately: "Do you remember who threw you off that rooftop to begin with?"

I sighed, dramatically throwing my head back against the headrest. "I knew it was going to come to this. Yes, I remember. He knew you'd go after me, you know."

"No one could know that," he said stubbornly.

"He said you'd done it before," I countered.

"The more reason to believe I'd learned from my mistakes."

"Yeah, well, you obviously didn't." I gave him a sharp sideways look, a clear sign that it was time to change the subject, but then, since when did he take cues from the likes of me?

"It doesn't make sense," he rumbled, wincing and leaning back into his seat—our back and forth had inspired him to sit up straight, but apparently he didn't have the energy to keep that up. " _You_ have a heart. _He's_ a monster. Why do you stay with him?"

"Is it comforting, being able to see the world in black and white like that?" I fired back, feeling my hackles rising.

"Leaving aside everything _else_ he's done, I know that the Joker was going to murder those two children," he growled, getting a little louder. "If that isn't black and white, you tell me what _is._ "

I shook my head, falling silent. I was of the opinion that that was an oversight on the Joker's part, but I knew he wasn't going to agree with me there, so I didn't bother voicing it.

It may have been just my imagination, but I thought that the gravel left his voice a little bit when he spoke next: "I also know that _you_ were the one who made sure that didn't happen."

I snorted. "Hardly. I made sure to keep from going to jail by distracting you, that's all."

"Harley." His voice was so menacing and the tone so exasperated that I wondered if Batman had a kid somewhere—he definitely had the "Dad" tone down. Reluctantly, I looked at him. "Don't try to misdirect. You didn't want those children dead any more than I did." I stared at him silently for a moment, then, figuring that the silence was confirmation enough, I turned to look back through the windshield. He switched tacks. "How did he react when he found out you'd ruined his plans?"

The laugh that erupted from my throat caught me off-guard, but I couldn't help it. I just cackled for a few seconds before glancing over to see that he was looking disgruntled. I didn't blame him. I didn't imagine that someone bursting into laughter in a seemingly inappropriate situation had ever ended well for him, so I attempted to clarify the source of my amusement: "You really want to play marriage counselor for us, Bats? Believe me, it never went well for the shrinks at Arkham when they tried it."

"I can't get my head around it," he said plainly enough. "You don't have the viciousness in you that he has. You're redeemable, Harley. Why him?"

This conversation was going on a bit too long for my comfort. I spotted a sign for a train station a block or two away, and I started looking out for a convenient place to park. "I'd have thought you'd figured that out by now, B. There _is_ no why with him; there's no _how_. Not since he became who he is." I spotted a promising alley and slowed down, maneuvering the car neatly into it.

Once the car was safely parked, I ignored the instincts that told me to get out of Batman's proximity as quickly as possible and turned towards him instead, resting my elbow on the shoulder of my seat and playing with a strand of hair, affecting casualness to undermine the seriousness of what I was telling him, things I'd never really spoken to anyone else. Somehow, speaking the truth about the Joker to Batman didn't feel like a betrayal the way it would have with anyone else. In some dreadfully ironic way, I felt certain that Batman was the only one who deserved to know. We shared the Joker, after all, as a common link: we were the only two constants in his life, though we certainly occupied different roles.

"Did you know I don't know a single thing about his past?" I asked him then. "Nothing _true_ , anyway. I know exactly as much as the cops know, maybe even less than _you_ know. I don't even know how he got the scars, really—he's told me four different stories at this point."

Batman didn't say a word. He just stared at me, waiting for the punch line.

"And you know," I continued, my eyes straying towards the windshield as I almost unconsciously checked for potential threats, habit since I joined the Joker and started having to look over my shoulder all the time, "as much as I'd like to be that one person he trusts with, you know, the _truth_ about who he was… I mean, despite the fact that I still have that desire in me somewhere, a larger part of me fully understands that he _can't_ give me any part of who he was, because who he _was_ is dead now."

I paused, put my hands in my lap, scratched at the tip of my thumb with my index fingernail, then looked up and met Batman's eyes again. "Despite the fact that I'm a trained shrink and I'm supposed to be able to intuit these things, I have absolutely no idea what happened to make him the Joker. I don't know if it was some… explosion of trauma where some stranger emerged on the other end, put together the remaining pieces, and called it a personality. Hell, for all I know, he could have been a perfectly normal guy, living a normal, respectable life… then he turned on the TV one day and saw something—a man-sized bat prowling the streets, say," I said with an ingenuous gesture—"and just started laughing, birthing a new self and killing the old one right then and there with no further prompting. I'm honestly no closer to knowing now than I was the day I met him.

"The point, Batman, since I'm sure you're wondering, is that the Joker isn't some… cracked man, some guy who went wrong and can be fixed. You can't return him to _normal_ when there's no _normal_ left. The Joker is a force of nature now, and he's one that I, for whatever reason, am uncontrollably pulled towards, and that's not liable to change. _Ever_. You can see that as tragic if you really feel like it, but honestly, if I was you, I'd look on the bright side. From your perspective, having me around him might save lives."

"And from your perspective?" he growled, finally breaking his slightly intimidating silence.

I looked him in the eye and replied with complete certainty: "I do whatever I can to keep him safe. If that means not letting him kill Gotham's most-loved cop's kids because, let's face it, that's a _fucking stupid_ idea, then that's what I do."

His face didn't give anything away, but since I'd been so honest up to this point, I decided it could hardly do any more harm to make sure he saw me exactly as I deserved to be seen, so I told him: "You can entertain the idea that it's possible for you or someone else to White Knight me all you want if it helps you sleep at night, okay? But for my own sake, I'm telling you right now that I'm no better than he is. We're both devoted to— _obsessed_ by—our chosen purposes, and we're equally vicious when something threatens that purpose. It just so happens that mine causes fewer innocent casualties than his. Fewer. Not _none_."

Batman was staring at me as though he still didn't quite believe me. Maybe he thought that my compulsion to tell him that, to make _sure_ he knew I wasn't a good person indicated some touch of remaining conscience, some possibility of redemption. I didn't really care what he was thinking—I'd said what I needed to say, and it was time to go.

With that in mind, I sat back and pulled my knife out of the ignition—it was scratched all to hell, and it could use some sharpening, but I had no intention of leaving it behind. "Now. I worked at Arkham Asylum for… a while, so you bet your ass I've seen some head injuries, and I'm telling you now: you need to rest. Catch Cobblepot later, if you want, but any more gallivanting around tonight and you run the risk of either passing out at inconvenient times or puking your guts out."

"I've been concussed before," he growled, sounding distinctly irritated.

"Good," I said, unbothered. "Then you know I'm telling the truth and not just trying to keep you from following me. Which," I added with a sharp glance, "you should not do. Cobblepot's guys were a cakewalk compared to ours, and you're basically one giant bruise right now."

I went for the door, and he moved suddenly but to no real effect, like he hadn't quite decided _what_ he was going to do but knew it would be a mistake to let me go. I threw out a hand reflexively, making a barrier between us before he could make any contact, and blurted out, "Don't. Just… don't." I conjured up a smile that felt more pained than wicked. "We've had a nice evening together, Bats, all things considered, and I don't think there are many more of those in our future. So do yourself a favor, even if it means doing _me_ a favor, and just… call it a night."

He didn't say anything, just stared at me, and after a second, I lowered my hand. When he didn't move, I pushed the door open behind me, and, keeping my eyes on him, I slipped out of the car.

After backing away from the car and towards the entrance of the alley a few steps, I determined that he wasn't going to follow me, at least not while I was still watching him, so I turned around and kept going. Once I emerged onto the street, I glanced around to reorient myself and ascertain that there weren't any immediate threats. Seeing none, I turned up the collar on my jacket, shoved my hands into my pockets, and made my way towards the rail station.

It had been a frightening and baffling night, and as I trudged along, one thought kept running through my mind: _I don’t know how in hell I’m going to explain all of this to the Joker._

* * *

I didn't go directly back to the hideout, of course. Even if Batman had given me his word on his love of being a killjoy that he wouldn't follow me, I wouldn't have trusted him, and given that I didn't even have _that_ assurance… well, I figured it would be smartest to weather the night hours somewhere well away from where the Joker was camped out.

I took the train to the east of the city, away from the skyscrapers and towards the urban sprawl of the outskirts, with its small businesses and sketchy people that my father would have dubbed "unsavory." Fortunately, unsavory suited my purposes entirely—in minutes after getting off the train, I located one of those motels used by drug dealers and prostitutes, the kind of access-from-the-outside institution that didn't require any identification or credit as long as you paid for your stay (by the hour, of course) in cash up front. It was three in the morning by the time I arrived; I paid out through seven o'clock. Throughout the whole process, no one so much as looked at me sideways—a rarity in Gotham, especially at this time of night, but I imagine the complicated past few hours I'd had were showing on my face in the form of an expression that read _do not touch me if something else happens tonight I will go_ _ **postal**_.

My room made it quite clear why motel management didn't require a credit card up front: short of setting the place on fire, there wasn't much I could do to damage the room further (and they'd probably welcome a fire, come to think of it; the stringy-haired guy at the front desk looked like someone who'd welcome an insurance payoff if it meant not having to run this shithole anymore). I cast a glance of disgust towards the rumpled bedspread and went directly to the bathroom.

The room was roughly coffin sized, but there was no evidence of blood or any unsavory bodily substances on any of the surfaces, so I figured I should count my blessings and get on with it. I stripped down, hung my clothes on the towel rack, and climbed into the shower, where I inspected every inch of me with my fingertips for anything that didn't belong—I wouldn't put it past Batman to have hit me with a tracker while I wasn't paying attention.

I didn't find anything on my skin, but I still wasn't satisfied. After air-drying, not trusting the crusty towel, I repeated the process with my clothes, then my bag and its contents. After ascertaining that Batman had either invented the world's most unobtrusive tracker or I was clean, I got dressed again.

After that, it was a waiting game. Even though I didn't believe I'd been bugged, he could have followed me. I figured a big hulking shadow trailing after me would be easier to spot in the daylight than in the middle of the night, so I was stuck till the sun rose. I spent the time sitting gingerly but resignedly on the floor and watching the television, which, miraculously, no one had stolen. After watching it for a while, it became obvious why it hadn't been a temptation to anyone: it got exactly two channels, GCN and Nickelodeon, and after two hours of the Fairly Oddparents morning marathon, I wouldn't have taken the thing if you'd _paid_ me.

I checked out at seven on the dot, got back on the train, and rode it to Upper Chelsea Hill to pick up my car from near Pam's place. By the time I got behind the wheel, it was after eight, and I was certain Batman wasn't following me—there was nowhere for him to hide anymore, all the shadows driven back by the brightness of the morning. I put the car into gear and drove home.

It was still a bit early for most of the henchmen to be up, given that they usually spent the nights when they weren't required at the bars, but some were awake and gathered in the main room. As I walked inside, George glanced up from where he was sitting slightly off to the side and reading the paper and raised his eyebrows. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I'm…" I paused, feeling butterflies cluster in my stomach and realizing that no, things wouldn't be okay until I'd spoken to the Joker and weathered his response to the story I had to tell, whatever that may be. I shook my head, refocusing, and asked George, "Is he here?"

He pointed silently up to the ceiling, and I nodded and went to climb the stairs, suddenly feeling the sleepless night in my shoulders and legs. I wanted nothing more than to go directly to sleep, get some distance from all that happened before dealing with it. Instead, I found myself warily pushing open the door to the Joker's room, a room I knew I hadn't been welcome in since I'd fucked up by letting Gordon's children live.

He was sitting on the bed sans jacket, sleeves rolled up, and had one of the many burner cell phones we kept for business purposes cradled between his ear and shoulder, using his hands to fill the magazine for his favorite Beretta. His eyes were trained on me as soon as I appeared in the doorway; he frowned, then jerked his head slightly to indicate that I should come in. I did, closing the door softly behind me and watching him, feeling a quickening in my heart that was quite separate from my nervousness. I realized with slight disgust that I had _missed_ him, though it had only been twelve hours since I'd seen him last. With all that had happened, it felt like longer.

I pulled my eyes away and went over to the desk, sitting in the swiveling chair and turning to wait. The Joker had been watching me as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the phone, but as I turned back towards him he leaned back and spoke. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's in motion." He pushed the magazine into place and flipped the phone shut with his newly freed hand, tossing it up towards the head of the bed before returning his attention to me. " _You've_ been out all night," he said by way of hello, staring at me with lowered brows and narrowed eyes—not glaring so much as assessing.

I didn't make a habit of disappearing overnight unless we'd fought badly, and despite the fact that I was in the doghouse and he wanted me to know it, things hadn't been terrible between us—not enough to warrant such a disappearance. _Of course_ , I thought as I tried to decide what to tell him, _the one night it'd be better if he_ _ **didn't**_ _notice my absence, he picks up on it._

"Yeah," I said finally. "I didn't plan on it."

He jerked his neck sideways, cracking it audibly, and commented, "And you have _blood_ on your shoes."

He was right; there was a dry brown crust flaking off of both toes—I'd noticed it earlier in my search for a tracker, made a note to clean them off before returning home, and promptly forgot to do so. "Yeah," I agreed quietly.

"O- _kay_ ," he said with false brightness, standing up in one fluid surge of motion and taking long, deliberate steps across the room towards me. "So. _You've_ had an interesting night, then." He reached me and I leaned back slightly as he settled on the desk right in front of me, bracing his hands primly on his thigh and leaning over me, pretending not to notice as I shrank reflexively down into the chair. Scrunching up his face in an imitation of empathy, he said, "Wanna tell me about it?"

I felt my brow crease wryly as I turned my head back to look up at him. "Not _really_ , but I kind of _need_ to," I admitted.

"Oh, this oughta be good," he muttered under his breath, then cleared his throat. "Uh. The floor is _yours_ , Harley."

I took a deep breath and started at the beginning.

The events at the Iceberg seemed to amuse him more than anything else. He even took me completely off-guard by laughing aloud, a _real_ laugh, when I, clearly embarrassed, got to the point of the conversation where Cobblepot had refused to tell me how they'd found me. "Ohh, _Harley_ ," he crooned with that sort of teeth-gritted, growling affection he seemed to feel most frequently towards me, reaching out and grasping my chin, shaking me in rough reassurance even as I screwed up my face and tried to pull away. "I _told_ Eddie to tip old Penguin off."

I stopped short in the middle of trying to pry his hand off of me and stared at him instead. "Y— _you_?"

"M— _me_?" he mimicked in an exaggeratedly high-pitched voice that was clearly supposed to represent me, and finally dropped his hand from my face to his knee instead. " _Yes_ , me. I figured Pengy might wanna speak to you alone, y'know, if we made the right impression at _all_."

"You couldn't _tell_ me about that?" I demanded. "If I keep having random dudes pull up beside me on the street I'm gonna have a heart attack."

"Oh, I doubt that; you're as healthy as a horse. Er. A _live_ one."

"Thanks for the clarification," I said flatly. "Even ignoring the fact that I would have liked a heads-up—Eddie's two-timing Cobblepot?"

"Yeah. He's good at that," the Joker said pensively.

"What makes you think he's not doing the same to you, giving you information directly on Penguin's orders?"

"I don' _t_ , necessarily," he answered plainly, clearly undisturbed by the thought. "But _you_ met him. He's a smart guy, huh? He's not gonna go behind _my_ back."

I paused, then said, "Fair point. I'm just a little stunned that he'd risk double-crossing the Penguin." The Joker shot me a questioning squint, and I said, "Right, that's part two of the story."

I went on to recount in detail the murder of Davis Steele and Cobblepot's clear intent in having me witness it: to send a message to the Joker. J only muttered, "Little _showboaty_ , don't you think?", and I had to stop for a brief second to stare at him in sheer disbelief that he was handing down judgments about melodramatic presentation. When he returned the look with nothing more than a disingenuous glance, I shook it off and moved along, something I was getting good at.

When I reached the part of the story where Batman came along, though, the Joker quit playing around. He didn't actively indicate his renewed interest, but I could tell by the way he quit interjecting idle comments and actually started paying attention. I plowed through the Batman part of the night determinedly and without stopping, leaving out the conversation we'd had in the car (he didn't need to know about any of that; I didn't think he'd take kindly to finding out that Batman was asking questions about me) and telling it instead as though Batman was badly concussed the whole time.

Finally, I wrapping up, telling him about going to the motel, making sure I wasn't carrying any bugs and then waiting out the sun. "…and as soon as I thought it was safe, I came home," I finished, hearing the sudden smallness of my voice and wishing I could hide my nerves a little better from him. I could lie to his face about a job gone wrong and do it well, but that was _business._ This was personal. I had no idea if I'd overstepped my bounds with Batman, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to find out.

As soon as I met his eye, he cocked his head and said, "You had Batman in the car with you."

"Yes," I said, getting a sinking feeling.

He chewed contemplatively on the inside of a scar for a moment, then asked, sounding slightly disappointed, "And you didn't think about bringing him by for a _visit_?"

 _Hoo, boy._ "I mean, yeah, it crossed my _mind,_ " I said, hunching my shoulders defensively. "But honestly, J, he was pretty messed up. _No_ fun at all. I really didn't think you'd think it was…"

"That I'd think it was…?" he said, leaning forward and catching my eyes, prompting me to continue though I _really_ didn't want to admit to my presumption in making decisions without consulting him. Again—with kids it was one thing. With Batman, it was another thing _entirely._

"That it was _fair,_ " I said finally, looking him in the eyes. "Honestly, I thought you might get mad if I brought him to you in that state."

He leaned back, frowning, working on the scars. "Hmm." I waited nervously, waiting for the fallout, but then his face split into a grin and he was standing, yanking me to my feet, then, to my great displeasure, throwing his arm over my neck and putting me in a headlock. "Aww, _good_ job, Harley," he growled in a tone that only plenty of practice allowed me to identify as affection rather than aggression (okay, maybe an equal blend of both), and he dug his knuckles into my scalp and gave me a fucking _noogie._

"J, are you _kidding_ me? Fuck _off!_ " I protested, pushing in vain at his waistcoat to try and throw him off.

He held on tenaciously long enough to show me who was boss, then planted his lips on my hair, and after a loud "MWAH," he loosened his grip and let me break away.

"What the _hell_ ," I said plaintively once safely out of his reach, straightening my clothes and trying to figure out if I was pissed at the indignity of it all or glad that he seemed not to be taking the whole Batman thing too hard.

He pointed at the cell phone. "Pengy got in touch. Wants us to arrange another _play date_ with Batman; musta gotten spooked last night. See? _Batman's_ still a problem; _Cobblepot_ comes running straight back to _me._ Teamwork," he said idly, his attention straying to the tip of his index finger, which he then used to dig around in his ear. I shook my head, still not following.

" _What_?"

He grimaced at me, withdrew the finger, and scraped it off on his pants. "Wants Batman's attention diverted," he repeated patiently. "So he can go off and do… whatever it is he _does_."

"Wait, just a second," I said, turning my gaze to the cell phone in horror. "He can get in touch with you via cell phone? J, they can use cell towers to get a location on us!"

The Joker made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. "Worry, worry, _worry,_ " he said, striding abruptly to me and taking hold of my elbows and adding matter-of-factly, "You know, it'll _give_ you lines."

"Hey, I'm sorry if you think it's excessive, but I just watched the Penguin _gut_ a dude. I _really_ don't want him to know where we sleep," I said earnestly, frowning up at him.

He sighed heavily. "Give me some _credit_ , will you? I've been doing this for longer than _you_ have, y'know. It's a whole… third party system," he said vaguely.

"Oh," I said, finally starting to relax a little. "Okay." Relieved of that worry, my brain caught up to the rest of what he'd been saying, and I narrowed my eyes appraisingly at him. "So it's _good_ that I got Batman out of there?"

"Yup," he said cheerfully, squeezing my arms tightly in his good humor.

"Because if Penguin had gotten hold of him, then he'd have no more use for us, and it'd be a _lot_ harder for you to accomplish the ultimate goal of bringing him down."

He popped his tongue in his cheek and said, " _Now_ you've got it."

My hands found his forearms and I trained my eyes intently on him. "So what, _exactly,_ are we doing tonight to further that ultimate goal?"

He leaned forward, raised his blackened eyebrows conspiratorially, the movement cutting furrows across his painted forehead, and said, " _That_ would be telling."

I stared at him for a moment, thinking that if I looked at him long enough, he'd yield and actually _communicate_ (like that had ever happened). All I got for my trouble was an unbelievably guileless look, and I sighed. "Okay," I muttered. "Not like I won't figure it out as we go along," I added, turning away.

The Joker tightened his grip on my arm before I could pull free of him, tugging me towards him again, and I turned back questioningly. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth in a regretful way that let me know I was going to hate whatever he was about to tell me and said, "Ah, yeah… _hmm._ About that."

I gave him a flat, unblinking stare. "Don't say what you're about to say," I warned him. Naturally, he disregarded me.

" _You're_ sitting this one out."

I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off, his voice suddenly low and rough and a distinctly threatening look in his eyes. "You don't want to fight me right now, kid. Don't think for a _second_ that you're home free after the _shit_ you pulled with the Gordon brats. You're on _suspension_ , and the best thing you could _possibly_ do right now is say, 'Yes, Mister J' and _shut up._ "

I maintained eye contact throughout the whole mini-lecture, and when he finished, even though I was tired and pissed-off and I did _not_ want to be away from him while he pulled something over on the Penguin, especially not after I saw firsthand what Cobblepot had done to the _last_ guy to fuck with their business relationship, I answered with, "Yes, Mister J."

He looked at me for a second, then the corners of his eyes creased and he gave me a brief grin. "See? And people think you aren't _smart_ ," he said, reaching up and giving my chin a rough squeeze. I scowled at him, aiming a halfhearted swipe at his face, which he dodged easily. "We've actually got some pre-job errands to run," he confided, striding backwards towards the door. "So, ah… don't wait up, I guess." He shot me another one of his arrogant grins before spinning around and leaving me alone, worried, and utterly worn out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry this took, what, three weeks to get to you? I explained on the blog, but Christmas is a terribly busy time for me at work so I've barely had time to sit down and commit to doing anything personal, but finally, I'm back (hopefully with regular updates from this point on) and hopefully the length of this chapter + Batsy times somewhat made up for the wait you had. I think this might be the longest one in the story, but they're all pretty long from this point on so I could be wrong.
> 
> Harley and Batman having a heart-to-heart was one of the first and strongest scenes to come to me as I was plotting this story. I've always loved the relationship Batman and Harley have in the comics and cartoon- how she basically exasperates him and he will totally fight her if she gets in the way (which she does, like, a lot) but how he always holds on to the idea that she can be redeemed. He also seems more willing to negotiate with her without bringing out the violence, because he understands her to an extent, or at least her lack of active malice. And Harley has never been shy about expressing affection towards Batman (or the rest of the crimefighters) when it feels right, even if the next day she'll be back to trying to trip him up, if not flat-out kill him. I wanted to translate that a little bit to Nolanverse, so hopefully y'all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Next up: shit continues to hit the fan. The Joker's complete and scornful disregard for basic self-preservation is unholy. Also henchman hangouts. I hope everyone's having a wonderful December, and if you've got the time, drop me a line below- I do enjoy hearing from you!


	17. you know you're better than this

_Been walking, you've been hiding,_  
_And you look half dead half the time._  
_Monitoring you, like machines do,_  
_You've still got it, I'm just keeping an eye_

 **-Imogen Heap,** _**Headlock ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l5732H0yDu0))** _

I'm still not sure how I got through that day, especially since I was determined not to fall asleep, despite the restless night before. The Joker left the hideout immediately after our rendezvous, taking most of the henchmen with him and sending the others out to drink or whatever they did when they weren't needed, so I was completely alone, worried sick and fitful.

I spent a good many hours working out, until the lack of rest proved too much and I simply couldn't keep moving anymore. Then, after showering, I camped out in the main room, where I could keep an eye on both the news and the front door at the same time.

The news played the same insipid drivel as always well into the evening, and despite my determination to stay awake until I knew all was well, I must have drifted off. All I know is that one second I was alone, and the next, the Joker was standing in the doorway, looking at me.

I blinked back at him, not sure if I was really seeing him or if this was a figment of a dream, just seconds from melting away. He glanced at the TV and asked, "Anything good on?"

Then I saw the blood.

There was a bright red stain blossoming on the inside of his left shoulder, and even as I silently absorbed it like a physical shock, immediately throwing up the self-protective thought _it probably isn't even_ _ **his**_ , he coughed and tilted forward. I was up in a flash, leaping over the arm of the couch to catch him, but my assistance proved unnecessary—he caught himself by propping his uninjured shoulder against the doorframe, shooting me a glare as I reached out for him, and as I pulled back, utterly blanking and uncertain what I should do, Ace appeared in the doorway.

"I told you to help him, Johnny, _jeeeezus_ ," he shot over his shoulder angrily.

One of his skinhead buddies came limping in, nursing a fresh wound to his thigh and whining, "Yeah, I tried and he stuck a fuckin' _knife_ in my leg!"

Normally, I'd be thrilled to hear about J picking on the skinheads, but just then I was frozen in fear and indecision, and I just stood back, arms folded under my chest, as if by occupying less space I could just ultimately disappear and not have to figure out what to do with myself. Ace hovered at the Joker's elbow and said, "Come on, boss, we got a room set up."

The Joker rolled his eyes, making a scornful, biting sound, as though the whole thing was just a great inconvenience to him, but in the time I'd been standing off and just observing, the stain had doubled in size, and I was able to see that the source of it was more in the chest than the shoulder—frighteningly close to the heart. This wasn't just some damn _inconvenience_ , and I felt fear creeping coldly into my spine like frost.

The Joker pushed away from the doorframe and gestured violently, and Ace promptly gave him a shoulder to hang on to. I moved around to his other side, but before I could so much as touch him, I found myself face to face with a knife, already gunked over with drying blood. Slowly, I lifted my eyes to the Joker's, seeing those black pits staring at me with the closest thing to hatred I'd ever seen in them, at least directed towards _me_ , so powerful that despite my worry for him, I found myself taking a step back, slightly out of reach of the knife.

That wasn't good enough for him. Still glaring at me, he ground out through clenched teeth, "You set _foot_ in that room, Harley, I will cut your goddamn throat my _self_."

I slowly held up my hands, palms out, signifying my surrender. He lowered the knife slightly, leaning on Ace, who to his credit didn't show even a hint of the satisfaction he must have been feeling at being preferred over me. I turned to watch as they disappeared swiftly into the back where the erstwhile infirmary was set up, and I felt a strange, quivery feeling in my chest, a combination of _way_ too many things to identify separately but overall a swirl of fear and misery.

Footsteps behind me brought me quickly back to myself, and I realized that tears had started streaming from my eyes. I dashed them away fast with the back of my hands before turning to see who was coming, and my eyes landed on George, who was going through the contents of a black bag even as he moved towards the back where the Joker had disappeared. He paused in passing, giving me one quickly assessing look, and he reached out to grip my shoulder. "Chin up, kid. It looks worse than it actually is; I'll take care of him."

If anything, the sympathetic words made that feeling in my chest worsen. I reached up and clasped his hand in a death grip, locking eyes with him. "Don't let him die, George. _Please_ , don't—" I cut myself off before my voice broke. He saw the fresh tears welling in my eyes, and maybe he knew I didn't want anyone seeing them, or maybe he was just uncomfortable in the presence of a teary woman, because he just squeezed my shoulder again before withdrawing his hand and brushing past me towards the back.

I watched him go through the sudden haze of tears and tried to filter some of the shit catapulting through my mind. I wanted nothing more than to go somewhere private and have a little freakout, but I knew suddenly that that wasn't an option, and even as the thought settled, my eyes started to dry. Since I definitely couldn't do what I _most_ wanted to do and keep an eye on the Joker while George was patching him up, then I focused on my next priority: getting information.

I turned around, blinking away the last tears and focusing on the stream of henchmen filing almost sheepishly through the door, most of them carrying weaponry and black tarp bags. There seemed to be fewer of them than usual, but despite that, I spotted a trustworthy face in moments and pushed my way single-mindedly towards him.

"Spider," I said, grabbing his elbow and checking quickly to make sure he wasn't among the injured—he had blood spattered across his chest, but it was clearly not his. "Spider, what the _fuck_ happened?"

He glanced over my head towards the back hallway, as if checking to see that the coast was clear, before setting down the bag he carried and taking my arm, pulling me out of the way of the others. "I'm not… completely sure. You know the boss; he's not exactly generous with information," he said, looking down at me, and I startled myself by laughing, just one quick burst that was probably the only thing that kept me from crying.

"Yeah," I said quickly when Spider started to look wary, like I was just moments away from breaking down and he didn't want to be anywhere near when that happened (he was closer to being right about that than I was willing to admit). "He, uh, he's pretty terrible about that. That's okay, just tell me what you know."

"Well, I gather that we were supposed to do something in North Point. The whole deal was to draw Batman off of Penguin, Penguin's guys were gonna be working on South Channel Island, I thought we were gonna do, like, a bank robbery or something. But before I know it, we're headed to the island to intercept Penguin's guys like last time, and either the Joker _knew_ that Batman wasn't going to show up no matter what, or we got lucky, cause there was no sign of him the whole night."

 _Yeah, might have something to do with the inside information that Batman's probably still nursing a concussion and not in any shape to get up to his usual nighttime activities,_ I thought, but kept that thought to myself and pressed on: "There was trouble with Penguin's people?"

"Hell yes," he said emphatically. "They were better prepared this time. Better weapons, more guys. We came up on them in a private loading bay next to the harbor, surprised them as they were loading the back of a semi-truck with a bunch of those," he said, waving to indicate one of the several dozen bags the other henchmen had lugged in. "Only the bags weren't the only thing in the back of the truck. Penguin set it up with armed guards this time, and as far as I can tell their sole purpose was to make sure whoever ripped them off last time got put in the ground tonight."

"That's when he got shot?"

"Nah," Spider said dismissively. "He warned us about 'em, actually, on the way over. Said Penguin was a prick but he's not _that_ stupid and he'd be expecting trouble tonight, so to stay sharp. I think he probably placed 'em as soon as he saw the truck, but he didn't bother to say so, and Joe and Mike weren't so lucky—they jumped up into the truck after we killed the guys who were loading it and got blasted back out immediately; that's when the rest of us caught on."

"Okay, so when did they shoot him?"

Spider hesitated. "That's the thing. _They_ didn't shoot him. They had their backs to the wall and took cover behind the rest of the bags, so they put up a good fight, took down Richie too in the process, but then the Joker just walks up with a Molotov cocktail and chucks it into the back with them, casual as you want, they bail on the truck because the rest of the bags caught on fire right away, and we shot 'em, real easy. The Joker told us to grab the bags that had already been unloaded, then… it was like someone punched him or something; he kind of stumbled forward, then he was bleeding. No one saw who did it and we got the hell out of there fast because none of us wanted to be next."

I felt my eyes growing wide. "You mean whoever shot him is _still out there_? And you have _no_ idea who it was?"

My voice must have been harsher than I intended it to be, because Spider drew back a bit defensively. "Look, the job was done, the boss was hurt, we all needed to take cover. Leaving was the right thing to do."

"I'm not saying it wasn't," I said hastily, "just… I mean, do you at least have an idea of whether it was, like, a civilian? Hired gun? Maybe one of Cobblepot's guys that wasn't quite dead yet?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Harley."

I shook my head. I needed to be alone, to parse all this together somewhere quiet. "It's… thank you for telling me, Spider. Um—what's in the bags?"

"Cash."

I blinked, then looked at the pile of more than a dozen black bags sitting in the middle of the main room at this point. "Right. Of course it is. Um, maybe just get the rest of the guys to put all that in the weapons room, get it out of the way? I'm sure the Joker has a plan for it if he bothered to take it at all."

He nodded and went to obey, looking somewhat relieved to be able to step away from me. I didn't blame him; the Joker hadn't been seriously injured like this since before I joined the team. Even _I_ didn't know how I was going to react, but Spider's instincts were right to tell him that it probably wouldn't be good.

I found myself drifting down the hall towards the makeshift infirmary. I had no intention of actually going into the room—I didn't think for a second that the Joker's threat was an idle one, and though I didn't know _why_ he didn't want me in the room (charitably, it was because he didn't want me to have to witness whatever guts and gore would come out of the procedure; more likely he just didn't want me hovering and worrying and being distracting to everyone involved), I was willing to respect the order to remain outside.

I wasn't going to stray far, though. I reached the closed door, sidestepped it so I wouldn't be under the feet of anyone coming and going, then, pressing my back to the wall, I sank down to sit on the floor, pulling my knees up close. I sat quietly and listened to see if I could get any idea of what was going on in the room behind me, but the walls were solid, and aside from the thump of footsteps moving closer and then further away, there was nothing.

I closed my eyes, tilted my head back, tried to calm the noise in my brain, and started to wait.

* * *

They probably weren't closed up in that room for more than an hour, but it was enough time for me to convince myself that something horrible had happened—it wasn't all that difficult; I was such a wreck already that it was easy for the darker thoughts to gain a foothold. He'd died a dozen times over in my mind by the time anyone emerged, and by that point I'd stopped trying to fight the tears, just sitting limply against the wall, wet-faced and fairly pathetic.

When the door finally opened, I made a weak effort to wipe some of the tears out of my eyes so I could at least see and turned to look: Ace had stepped out, and he glanced down at me with a frown, but didn't say anything before turning and clomping away. I was about to call after him—it would be worth having to talk to him if it meant I got an update on the Joker—when George followed, closing the door behind him.

He glanced down at me, wearing his usual unimpressed deadpan expression, looked down the empty hall, then sighed wearily, stepped around me, and settled onto the floor beside me with a groan. "Well, the bullet's out," he said directly as he tried to make himself comfortable on the hard floor. "He lost quite a bit of blood, and it's not like we're set up for transfusions, but I stitched him up, made him drink water—he wanted whiskey."

I choked out a laugh that felt more like a sob. "Yeah, he does that. You didn't let him?"

"Hell, no, I didn't. Fortunately we got his weapons off him beforehand; there wasn't much he could do about it. By the time I finished up he wasn't feelin' so hot, so he's sleeping it off now."

I felt a few more tears slipping out of my eyes. By that point, I was astonished that there were any _left_ , but so far beyond the point of fighting them that I just sat still and waiting for them to clear up before forcing myself to ask the question that needed to be asked, a question I dreaded hearing the answer to: "Is he gonna die?"

George shot me a glance, and I got the impression that he was more than a little startled, though his eyebrows barely twitched. "Someday, probably, sure. But not from this. He'd benefit from a few days' rest, good food, and a sling to keep his arm still while it heals, and somehow I get the feeling he's not gonna sit still long enough to get any of those things, but he'll pull through just fine."

My face crumpled at the news and I reached up to cover it with my hands. I'd been trying to shore up my emotional defenses, to prepare myself for the news that this would be the end of him—I'd been so focused on trying to ensure that I would survive bad news that the relief took me off-guard. I took a sharp, sobbing breath, and somehow I was crying hard again.

I was fully prepared for George to bail at the first sign of real, sincere sobbing, and part of me wished he would—it was embarrassing, letting my control lapse like this, and more importantly, tears undermined me, which was something I _really_ couldn't risk. However, there was another part of me that was absolutely starved for some sort of comforting presence, and so I couldn't find it in me to tell him to go when he didn't immediately leave on his own.

He sat in silence for a minute until I got my ragged breathing under control and my crying became more subdued, then he spoke up, sounding almost contrite. "Aw, Christ, kid, I forget you haven't been in this game as long as some of the rest of us. I shoulda told you right away."

"No, I just…" I pulled my hands away from my face and used the relatively dry backs to clear my face, taking a deep breath and trying to keep my voice calm even though it kept breaking. "I love him a lot, and he didn't want me in the room, and it isn't easy to know that… someone you love that much is hurt badly."

George was silent for a long time, but at length, he said, "You know, I was a Gotham cop for twenty years."

That startled me. I stared at him through damp eyes, sniffed, and said, " _You_?"

"What, don't I look it?"

I took a look at him. Though the physical look was on point—the shaved head, the totally expressionless features—I found that I was having trouble reconciling what I thought of George to my almost exclusively negative feelings about police, and I told him, "You're _way_ too nice to be a cop."

He actually chuckled, though the sound wasn't a happy one. "Yeah. No, I'm not."

"Twenty _years_?"

"Yep."

 _Well, that explains why the Joker brought him on._ Someone who had an intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the Gotham City police department could only make things easier for us, help us decrease the chances of running into trouble on that end. Although… it _did_ throw his loyalty into question. I didn't see George as a threat and I was fairly positive that J wouldn't have let him on board unless he was certain that he wouldn't turn on us, but out of curiosity, I found myself asking, "What the hell are you doing working on the other side now?"

"A lot of reasons. I was telling you the truth earlier when I said that old men who can't retire don't have many options employment-wise; this job fit my skill set."

"That's not the only reason, though," I said, watching his face and seeing that there was more to it than that.

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, then directed his gaze forward. "No. I had a kid. A daughter—she'd be about your age now, actually, maybe a couple of years younger."

I noted the past tense and my heart sank, but I didn't interrupt—just sat and looked at him and let him talk.

"She was a smart kid, had great brains, but _no_ common sense whatsoever. Her mom passed when she was a teenager; it was just me and her for a while. We managed. But Gotham, you know, it really started to get to her after a while—as she got older, looked around and saw the piles of shit everywhere in this damn city, it drove her crazy. And of course, she was the kind of kid who was always tryin' to fix things that were broken, so around the time most other kids were heading off to college, she was organizing protests. And 'cause she'd grown up hearing about all the shit they pulled, Gotham PD were the target of most of her anger.

"As you can imagine, it caused a bit of a rift. I didn't want her out there railing against the department I'd been working for for twenty years, she couldn't understand why I wasn't speaking out about the things I knew. We fought a lot those days. I told her she was gonna end up getting herself killed." He paused, pursing his lips thoughtfully for a moment, then, completely tonelessly, he said, "I don't know why it came as so much of a shock when it actually happened."

I wiped away the last of my tears, cleared my throat, and, taking care not to sound too horrified—he clearly wasn't telling me this for sympathy or to get a reaction and I wanted to respect that emotional barrier he'd put up—I asked, "How?"

He seemed to have lost himself in thought. He stared at the opposite wall for a few seconds before my question seemed to sink in and he glanced quickly at me. "Ah. She was with some friends when the friends decided to egg a pair of officers who were harassing a kid at a routine traffic stop; the officers retaliated by firing at the group. They hit her in the chest and she bled out before the ambulance arrived." He shook his head. "Like I said, no common sense—hanging around with to people who were throwing shit at police. I considered gunfire to be excessive escalation, though."

"Yeah," I said, barely audibly.

"Yeah, well, the courts didn't agree. They ruled that the officers were within their rights to defend themselves from a perceived threat."

"A fucking _egg_?"

He snorted. "One of the things she was always pissed about. Cops gunning down black kids and getting away with it." He drew a breath and turned his head to look at me again. "I quit the force, of course. The officers at fault thought they'd gotten away with it, but after a few years, I went to their homes and shot 'em. At least _they_ had the luxury of dying in their beds. Thought about doing the same to myself, if I'm being perfectly honest—I figured I was about as much to blame as they were; I was the one who filled her head with stories about all the injustice in the police department to begin with. And it took her death to make me quit—something she was always asking me to do. Should have done it a long time before, only… I guess I thought I had a better chance of protecting her from _inside_.

"Anyway, I was sittin' in the living room, gun in hand, thinking about it, when the phone rang and _he_ —" he tilted his head back, indicating the room behind us—"was on the other end. Said he was a fan of my work. I guess the case caught his eye when it first made papers; he'd been keeping an eye on me since, it looked like. Anyway, he said there was a spot open if I wanted it and that I could kill as many cops as I felt like. Two months later, here we are."

I watched him for a moment. He wasn't looking at me anymore, lost in thought, gazing at the opposite wall, and I felt the urge to lean my head against his shoulder, show him some mark of the affection and appreciation I felt for him now more than ever, knowing what I did. It all suddenly made sense, the way he'd seemed to keep one eye on me from the moment I'd arrived.

Of course, from a therapist's point of view, the whole thing was a clusterfuck. George, it seemed, was transferring his paternal feelings to me in a hopeless effort to undo his daughter's death, an event for which he clearly felt responsible. I was embracing any mark of paternal affection or protection in the face of the lack of such things in my own father, who very likely _wished_ I was dead. I knew that these compatible emotional wants in us were likely the only things that made us feel this unnaturally strong bond for practically no reason, but I'd long since stopped trying to dissect my emotional ties and figure out _why_ I cared about a person. The reasons never made any sense, anyway.

Of course, caring about George wasn't part of the plan, not since the loss of Javier rendered me wary of feeling any sort of emotional attachment to henchmen, but I hadn't been careful, I hadn't isolated myself enough, and it had happened. I'd deal with it later.

In the meantime, I wanted to give him some idea of that partiality, and since I got the impression that any sort of affectionate body language would be unwelcome, at least so closely on the heels of his confiding in me about his daughter (some men could be odd about anything resembling sympathy; the Joker was one of them and I got the distinct sense that George was another), I decided instead to show him I'd gotten his message.

"Well," I said, lifting myself to my feet and dusting off the seat of my pants, "I think it's admirable that you're actually doing something productive with your anger instead of lying around motionless and miserable, and on that note… is there anything at all I can do to help him recover? Anything I can get?"

George pulled back from his thousand yard stare and turned those hangdog eyes on me. "I've got all the supplies I need, so until he regains consciousness and starts making demands… I mean, if you wanted to go sit with him, it might—"

"Ohhh, no," I said with a quick, mirthless chuckle. "He doesn't want me in that room, so I'm not setting foot in there until he invites me, whether he's conscious or not. No, I've got a better idea. I'm going to hunt down the son of a bitch who had the gall to put a bullet in him, and I'm going to… you know what, I haven't figured out quite what I'm going to do with him once I get him. I guess I'll figure that out on the way."

"You're doing what?"

The new voice was from down the hall. I turned to see that Ace had appeared in the doorway, and I scowled. "Nothing. None of your business."

"You're going after the gunman," he repeated, staring at me with slightly lowered brows, and I tossed up my hands in annoyance.

"If you _heard_ me, why'd you ask me to—"

"I'm coming with you," he said, folding his arms as though expecting a fight—which he was right to do.

"Like hell, you are," I said, glaring at him, though I broke off after just a second when George started to push himself to his feet, turning instead to give him a hand off the hard floor.

I ended up regretting it when George, catching his balance, said, "That's not actually a bad idea." I shot him a glare, then whipped around to look at Ace again accusingly, wondering if he'd had anything to do with George's apparent change of heart towards him. Ace just pointed immediately and defensively towards George, nonverbally signaling that it was all _him_.

"How on _earth_ could that _possibly_ be good idea?" I asked flatly, crossing my arms in preparation for the bullshit, keeping my mistrustful eyes on Ace, who was walking closer.

George seemed completely unfazed by my skepticism. "Look, kid, correct me if I'm wrong, but you're not exactly going into this thing eyes wide open. My hunch is you've got a starting place and anything that comes after that'll be new to you, so it won't hurt to have some backup. I'd go with you myself, but I need to stay here, keep an eye on the boss."

I huffed a little, turning to him in protest. "Okay, backup, sure, but why _Ace_?"

"Because I give a damn," Ace said firmly, halting a foot away from me. I paused at that, looking back at him with reluctant annoyance, and he waited until I was looking him in the eye before spreading his arms and shaking his head. "Part of the reason he's still alive right now is that people are usually too terrified to even take a shot. Someone guns for the boss and gets away with it, it won't be long before even fucking _civilians_ are going after him on sight. We have to make an example of the fucker who went after him, and _now._ Now, a lot of the other guys are here because… I don't know, it's exciting, paychecks are decent, whatever, but _none_ of them are as dedicated to this operation and the boss as I am. Go with someone else and halfway through they might decide that the Joker's done and they might as well make it two for one, take you down the same night."

"Not certain _you_ won't shoot me in the back since the boss is holed up and unable to do anything about it right now," I said, narrowing my eyes mistrustfully.

Ace huffed and rolled his eyes. "Come on. I hate you, but you really think I'm going to risk hurting you without his say-so, or even letting you _get_ hurt on my watch? I don't think so."

As loath as I was to admit it, he made a decent case. He also had the advantage of being the only henchman I knew from before my stint in Arkham, and as a result, I knew he wasn't blowing smoke when he talked about being devoted to the Joker. And George was right, I really didn't have much of an idea what I would run into on this little quest, so if I ran into trouble, it'd help to have someone strong who knew his way around a pistol as backup.

I sighed heavily, making sure the sound conveyed how distinctly _not happy_ I was about this, and then I said, "Grab your shit and meet me out by the cars in five minutes."

I saw the start of a sneer at his mouth, but he managed to pull it back in time, and he turned away without a word. I watched him go before addressing George again. "If I come back dead, make sure the Joker knows who to blame, okay?"

I saw that almost-smile starting in his eyes again. "Will do."

I hesitated, then, dodging eye contact, I said, "Keep him safe. Make sure he survives this."

I didn't wait around for any sort of reassurance—he'd already told me all he could. I knew that the best thing I could do to improve the way I felt about this whole situation was to start the hunt for the shooter, and so I turned abruptly away and went upstairs, where I packed a knapsack of various weapons and implements I thought might come in handy. This done, I went back down, grabbed a random pair of keys, and went out to the car lot.

Ace was waiting for me. I strode up to him, slung my bag onto the trunk of the car, and stabbed an index finger towards his face. "If we're doing this, I'm laying down some rules."

I didn't particularly like the vaguely amused look that sprang to his eyes at that, and he glanced down at my finger deliberately before meeting my eyes and drawling, "All right, shoot."

"Number one: _no_ drugs. Seriously, Ace, I want you _completely_ focused. If I wanted to take a friendly fire shot to the leg because my partner's distracted and paranoid from the meth, I'd just pick up a random junkie from under a bridge. Clear?"

That curling sneer had started to reappear at his mouth, but he just nodded curtly and said, "And?"

" _And_ I'm taking point on this because I have an idea of where to start, which means I _need_ you to follow my lead. Past resentments totally aside when we're working, okay? We might be handling some delicate shit and I don't want you getting all macho and crushing our chances of finding this guy, all right?"

"Kind of vague, but yeah, I can play bitch for the night," he replied with a smarmy shrug, and I rolled my eyes up to the sky, wishing with every inch of me that Pam was here to slap him into oblivion for that comment. "Anything else?" he nudged when I took an extra second to convince myself that beating him with the butt of my gun would be counterproductive at this point.

I shot him a glare. "Yeah. I doubt this one will be a problem, but like… no chatting, no quips, no fucking _bonding_. This isn't a buddy cop movie. Get it?"

"Believe me," he said, " _bonding_ with you isn't my idea of a good time."

"Okay. As long as we're square on that." He gave me a little scoff that had me wanting to hit him even _more_ and nodded, and I stared at him for a second, wondering if I was making a _huge_ mistake (probably), before finally deciding to move on. "Okay. I have a hunch."

He stretched a hand out towards the car, somehow managing to make the gesture sarcastic. "Okay, then. Let's get going."

* * *

My "hunch" had been having dinner in the form of reheated Kraft macaroni and cheese, and he wasn't exactly happy when Ace and I practically broke down his door. "Oh, _no_ ," he moaned as soon as he saw me, "I _knew_ I should have moved. Eddie, why don't you listen to your own advice?"

"What, are you talking to yourself now?" I asked, advancing on him as Ace turned to secure the door.

"Well, it's the only way I can get a decent conversation," he grumbled, but he bumped back against the counter as I apparently got just a little too close, belying the confident snark he was firing off. Following impulse, I took another step, put one hand on the counter on either side of him so we were nice and cozy, and I _smiled._

"Hi, Eddie."

He scowled, but the facts that he was doing his best to avoid touching me or letting me touch him and that he was keeping his chin down so that our faces were as far from parallel as he could manage it told me that my instincts were right and that he was _decidedly_ uncomfortable with me this far into his space… which, of course, made me _more_ comfortable. "What do you want?" he demanded.

"Cutting right past the foreplay, I see. Normally that's an undesirable trait in a man, but in this case…"

The taunting edge in my voice proved sufficient to push him past discomfort into anger, and he grabbed my shoulders and shoved me back a foot or two, reclaiming his personal space. I let him have it, settling back onto my heels and shooting him a look that was at once knowing and amused, and I went on: "In _this_ case, it's actually preferable. I want information."

"About?" he snapped, folding his arms defensively. I glanced over my shoulder at Ace, checking to make sure he wasn't doing anything stupid, but he was just standing with his back tilted against the door. He tilted his chin up arrogantly, making the universal gesture for _after you,_ and I turned back to Eddie.

"I'm sure you know by now that the Joker's been shot," I said, and I was surprised that my throat didn't close over the words.

"Oh?" he said indifferently, neither confirming nor denying.

"Yeah, a couple of hours ago. I need to know exactly who put the bullet in him and where to find him."

"What makes you think I'd know that?"

"I don't know, the fact that you seem to know just about _everything_? Not that your ego _needs_ inflating, but the Joker doesn't work with just anybody." Ace started coughing a little too suddenly for it to be a coincidence, and after shooting an annoyed glance over my shoulder, I amended in retaliation, "Well. Except Ace."

"Cute," muttered Ace, but I ignored him, focused on Eddie.

If he was gratified by the admission, he didn't show it. If anything, the furrows on his freckled forehead deepened, and he ran his fingers through his hair, making it stick straight up. "Look, best at what I do or not, there _are_ some limits. Naming a shooter who targeted the Joker—that's difficult _enough_ ; do you know how many people in Gotham want him dead? But you want me to find someone who shot him _tonight_? I'm a facts-collector and an autodidact, not a _magician._ "

I snorted skeptically. "Eddie, you made fun of me for having a _doctorate._ "

His green eyes flashed to mine, instantly alert and wearing a nasty look I decided I didn't like. "Aww, did wittle Harley get her feewings hurt?" he crooned in an awful baby voice.

I shook my head, slightly stunned. I was expecting something more along the lines of Jonathan's arrogant, cold pretense of dignity, but this… this was just _petty._ _He's more annoying than Ace,_ I thought to myself, and so it was with renewed irritation that I jabbed a finger in Eddie's narrow chest and said, " _Stop_ spinning. Stay on point. What I'm saying is that arrogance like that doesn't come unfounded. I think it's safe to say _you_ believe you can get what I'm asking you for, whether you want _me_ to believe it or not."

"Oh, God, I forgot you used to be a shrink," he sniped petulantly, rolling his eyes. I sensed that I'd reached a dead end with asking nicely, so I shrugged, stepped aside, and jerked my head.

And, as discussed in the car on the way over, Ace barreled forward, seized Eddie by his ratty "I'm a Pepper" t-shirt, and hauled him away from the counter, then slammed him back-first into the wall, enough to make plaster dust hiss out from the cracks there. Ace kept him pinned with a forearm across his collarbone and I sat on the countertop, picking at my fingernails as I said, "Look, you can either tell me or you can tell Ace's fist. I'm not picky as long as I get my information."

Eddie practically looked through Ace at me, as if one more schoolyard bully was _entirely_ beneath his notice. "Listen, _Harley,_ I might make exceptions for the Joker because, frankly, he could do _far_ worse things to me than beat me up. He's _truly_ scary. However, as far as the rest of Gotham is concerned, I'm Switzerland."

Ace tightened his grip, jerked Eddie forwards, and then slammed him painfully against the wall again. "Look, pal," he growled, "the only reason Switzerland's allowed to stay neutral is 'cause it's rigged to blow in hundreds of spots if anyone ever threatens to attack it. You got anything like that for me, or am I right in thinking you're all talk?"

Eddie suddenly focused on his attacker, giving him an utterly bewildered look, and Ace hesitated, glancing sharply over his shoulder to find that I was giving him the exact same look. "What?" he demanded defensively. "I read. Sometimes."

I shook my head, moving past it. "Eddie, if you want money, that's not an issue. I can give you more than what the information's worth."

"You don't _know_ what the information's worth," Eddie snapped, ignoring Ace once again, "and the fact that everything constantly boils down to _money_ and _violence_ with you people is the _exact_ reason I won't choose a side. You can beat me up all you like. I've dealt with it more times than I can count. It won't make a difference—you won't know what you want to know in the end."

"Oh, you wanna bet on that?" growled Ace, drawing back a tightened fist, but something Eddie had said struck a chord in me.

"Stop," I said sharply.

Ace released an agitated breath through his nostrils. " _Harley_ —"

" _Ace_ ," I said, sliding off the counter and approaching them, curling my fingers around Ace's wrist and pulling it down away from Eddie's face. "I want to discuss something with Eddie, and I'd like you to… go out and wait, make sure nobody's sniffing around. If my idea doesn't work, then you're free to come back in, do it your way, pummel the shit out of him. I don't care. Just give me five minutes."

Ace hesitated. He glanced from me to Eddie, back to me, back to Eddie again, then back to me. "Are you… gonna…?" he started, suddenly at a loss for words.

I frowned, and when he didn't seem to be getting anywhere with the question, I demanded, "Am I gonna _what_?"

" _You_ know," he said, tilting his head towards Eddie significantly. " _Sleep_ with him."

My jaw dropped and I reflexively swung _hard_ at his shoulder. " _No,_ you fucking idiot! Get outside!"

"All right, stop fuckin' _period_ raging at me!" he said defensively as he released Eddie, ducking my fists.

"Get your ass out of here before I decide to take that personally," I snarled, getting a good shove in before he finally got out of range. He opened the door, unable to refrain from delivering the classic parting shot "Crazy _bitch!_ " before finally getting himself outside and slamming the door behind him. I rolled my eyes, arms folded tight across my chest and practically seething with agitation. _God save me from the idiot misogynist lowlifes in this town; I swear I should just jump out there and shove him over the railing, better yet I should_ _ **really**_ _set Pam on him,_ _ **that'll**_ _show him, period rage my ass…_

"You know," Eddie spoke up, drawing my attention back to him—he was still standing against the wall, as if not quite sure it was safe to move yet, though the cocky expression was definitely working its way back across his face—"if you wanted to _try_ that, I wouldn't necessarily…"

"Oh, shut the hell up," I growled, turning on my heel and stalking across the room. The mess on the floor was a bit more navigable than last time, so it wasn't long before I ended up next to his serial killer wall, and he followed immediately, getting anxious all over again.

"Do _not_ touch that," he reminded me, as if I didn't remember his mini freak-out from last time. I didn't touch, but I did reach up and jab my finger at the article describing Pam's disappearance.

" _What_ is that all about?" I demanded, glowering at him, daring him not to answer. "And _why_ is it connected to _this_?" I continued, tracing my way down the line to the Pennington obituary.

He pulled a dismissive face. "Pennington was killed with an uncommon, nearly untraceable plant-based poison; Dr. Isley's department is about the only one in the city that would be able to manufacture it with ease. I thought that perhaps her disappearance might indicate that someone in said department… had…" His brain caught up with his mouth at that point, and he trailed off, staring suspiciously at me for a few seconds before saying, "You and Dr. Isley were friends."

 _Ah, now he's getting it._ I just nodded once.

He glanced from me to the board, then, slowly, back at me again. It took him a moment, as if he had to work himself up to it, but finally, he asked, "What do you know?"

"I'll trade you. You tell me who shot J and where to find him, I'll tell you what I know."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How do I know it'll be worth the trade?"

"Oh, it's worth the trade," I said bluntly, looking him straight in the eye.

He stared at me for just a few seconds, gauging my sincerity, and he must have decided that the information was worth the risk, because he just said "Right," and turned to pick his way over to his desk. I expected him to settle in and tell me to be patient, but he just snatched two sheets of paper from the printer and examined it. "Ah, yes. Shooter's name is Gunther Howard, an ex-military sniper, current-hired gun. I reached for footage from several CCTV sources near the location of the shooting, spotted the man carrying the suspicious-looking case into the area not long before it all went down, ran facial recognition, and an hour later, there we have it. When he's got the money to spend, he can most often be found at the strip club the Gold Nugget downtown, but if you can't find him there, his address and photograph are right _here_." He flicked the paper with his middle fingernail and held it out to me.

I was staring. "You knew the whole time?"

He shrugged modestly. "Well, I wasn't planning on _giving_ it to you, but yes, when one of Gotham's most prominent faces gets _shot,_ it behooves one to know who was at the trigger—not in the least because that psychotic _boyfriend_ of yours might be the one to beat down my door looking for it."

I reached for the sheet of paper and he jerked it slightly out of reach. "Ah, ah. I gave you enough that you know I'm serious _;_ now, if you want his picture and address, then it's your turn."

I blew out a sigh and met his eyes again impatiently. "Dr. Pamela Isley is still alive and well and currently in the city of Gotham."

I was gratified by the sight of his eyes growing slightly wider. I imagined not that many people could say that they were able to give Eddie information that surprised him. " _Really_? How? What's her connection to the obituary?"

"Eddie, I could tell you, but I'd rather do you one better. How does lunch with the lady herself sound?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all can't see me right now, but I look sheepish, I promise. Another long gap between updates, but hopefully you guys have had a wonderful winter vacation and are inclined towards tolerance. :) Though I'm not sure how tolerant you're feeling given this last chapter. Look, the Joker's got a dangerous job and he keeps stabbing people in the back, someone was bound to get a shot off at him eventually! I'm just surprised it hasn't happened sooner, honestly. Don't worry, Harley's on it.
> 
> And despite what she says, she and Ace are _totally_ currently starring in a buddy comedy. Hey, we need the levity to offset the fact that the root of hers and George's inclination to each other is some pretty deep sadness and damage in both of them. (On that note, I swear George's backstory was planned in detail well before the recent social focus on rampant police brutality really kicked up- funny how life works that way.)
> 
> On the blog, I finally posted that casting post I was talking about a while back, for those of you who haven't seen it and like to match faces to your characters. Enjoy!
> 
> I'll try and be much quicker with the next update. Thanks to all of y'all who commented, I appreciate you so very much! Have a wonderful new year, everyone!


	18. the devil already, he knows me so well

_The wishes I've made are too vicious to tell,_  
_Everyone knows I am going to hell,_  
_And if it's true, I'll go there with you._

**-Phildel, The Wolf ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XdBd_RDuCMc))  
**

I emerged onto the narrow balcony a minute later, and Ace straightened up hurriedly, flicking the remainder of the cigarette he'd been indulging in off the edge. "Well?" he asked, frowning.

In response, I held the paper out to him. He snatched it from my hand and scanned it briefly, then looked up at me and demanded, "And you're sure it's good?"

"If it's not, I'm sure he'll become well-acquainted with your fist," I said lightly, but when that provoked nothing but a rather annoyed look, I let out an exasperated sigh and said, "It's _good._ He had the information on hand already in case the Joker came along; he's not gonna give the _Joker_ false information. Would _you_?"

"Fair enough," Ace said, handing me back the paper and narrowing his eyes appraisingly at me. "Are you _sure_ you didn't—"

"Oh, for _fuck's_ sake," I said loudly, and he chuckled, turning around and heading down the stairs.

"Ah, loosen up. I know you didn't," he fired over his shoulder. "You were in there for too long."

"Ahh, jabs towards your fellow man's sexual prowess," I mumbled, following him. "Shoulda just brought a ruler; we could have had it all out from the start."

"Yeah, well, you'd need something bigger than a ruler."

I glared at the back of his head. " _What_ did I say about quips?"

"Look, you're making it too easy," he said, hitting the ground and starting towards the car. I rolled my eyes, but kept the immediate thought _I need to live with women, all these dudes are starting to grate on my nerves_ to myself—I could only imagine what he'd say in response to that.

Instead, I said, "Okay, so our next step is to figure out where this club is—he called it the Gold Nugget, said it was somewhere downtown."

"Yeah," drawled Ace, circling around to the driver's side and looking at me over the top of the car, "I know where that is."

I raised my eyebrows. "Well enough to take me there tonight?"

"Yep."

"I don't know _why_ I'm surprised. Just… get us there, okay?" I ordered, climbing into the car.

"Yes, ma'am," he muttered sarcastically, following suit, and seconds later, we were on the way.

Blessedly, the ride there passed without any further dialogue between us. Less fortunately, the lack of conversation plus Ace's position as the driver meant that he felt like he had the right to fill the car with his music—shrieking, grating, heavy metal, not even something oldschool like Slayer that I had a chance in hell of appreciating. Despite the damage being done to my ears (and the temptation to hijack the radio and blast something like Britney Spears _just_ in retaliation), I decided to count my blessings. At least this way, I didn't have to speak to him.

We rolled up outside of The Gold Nugget shortly after two in the morning, and business, it seemed, was booming. Once we were parked in a lot across the street, I decided it might be wise to come up with some sort of game plan, so I switched off the music and turned to Ace. "Okay. So you're familiar with the place, right?"

"Define familiar."

I sighed. "You know the layout." I picked up the photograph Eddie had given me and thrust it towards him. "You can look for _him_ and navigate the place at the same time, yeah?"

"Yeah, sure, I think I can manage," he said sarcastically, snatching the picture from me and looking intently at it.

"Okay, good, then you take the lead this time. I'd… feel kind of awkward in there, especially since I don't know where the fuck I'm going," I muttered, half to myself, but regretted voicing the thought out loud when Ace shot me a quick, amused glance before he returned his attention to the picture. I shook it off. "Anyway, I'll just stick with you. If either of us sees him, we'll signal the other, and we jump him."

"What if he's in a private booth?"

I frowned at him. "What _if_?"

"Well, those are in the back. We won't be able to see them from the main floor. Only way anyone gets back there is if they're a dancer or if they've _solicited_ a dancer." He looked thoughtfully at me. "I guess you could pose as a dancer if you slutted it up a little more."

I bit back the annoyed words that threatened to surface at that, refrained (with difficulty) from punching him right in the face, and I said, "Ace, I'm not posing as a fucking _stripper_. I swear I'm about to _burn_ all the Michael Bay flicks in the hideout; those movies are rotting you guys's brains."

"I'm just sayin', you obviously haven't been in places like this. You haven't seen the big guys that work security."

"Look, if we end up needing to get into the back, I'll come up with something, all right?" I asked, unbuckling my seatbelt and going for the door. "In the meantime, for now, let's just see if he's even _in_ there."

I couldn't say I'd ever been in a strip club—not so much because of any moral standards (I didn't give a shit how people made their money or how people spent their money) and more because it always seemed like an unwise place for a lone woman to go. To that end, I was begrudgingly grateful for Ace's presence. Granted, it had been a long time since I had been intimidated by men who looked at me like they thought they were the Big Bad Wolf (I knew the _real_ one, thanks) but sticking close to Ace meant that they would assume I was with him and were therefore less likely to bother me.

The place looked more or less the way I imagined it would, with luridly-flashing lights, undulating girls everywhere in sight, a central stage featuring a pole-dancer, men clustered around that stage, and less populated tables scattered in the shadows throughout the room. I actually got sidetracked for a moment watching the pole dancer—the level of athleticism you had to possess in order to not bust your ass and _still_ make it look good was pretty intense; as a gymnast I could appreciate it—before Ace jabbed me in the ribs, calling my attention back to the job at hand. "Gonna work, or do you just wanna ogle girls all night?"

"This night is going to end with you getting your ass kicked," I vowed, but, admittedly chastised, I turned away and helped him look for our culprit.

After a minute of searching to no avail, I glanced at Ace, reading the same story on his face. He pulled a resigned face; I sighed and let my shoulders slump. In giving the club one more once-over, though, I caught sight of one of the big bouncers standing rather conspicuously in front of an open doorway, and I jabbed an elbow into Ace's stomach. "Is that the way to the private booths?"

"Ow, _fuck_ , Harley," he growled before following my pointer finger and nodding begrudgingly. "Yeah, but—"

"Give me the photograph," I ordered, turning towards him and holding out my hand impatiently.

He reached into his pocket, at the same time giving me an extremely doubtful look. "Harley—"

I wasn't in the mood for naysaying, especially when I wasn't positive my plan would work—I had enough doubts issuing from my _own_ head, thank you very much. "Just—follow my lead," I interrupted, and without giving him another chance to try and talk me out of it, I turned and went straight for the bouncer.

He'd probably clocked us as an odd pair the moment we entered, and he visibly straightened as I approached, giving me a suspicious look. I pulled out my best quivery, about-to-cry voice (not hard—all I had to do was think of the Joker lying unconscious at home with a gaping hole in his shoulder), and I said, "Sir—have you seen my brother Gunther? I know he comes here a lot of nights and I _really_ need to find him."

I didn't wait to see if the question did away with his suspicions, going ahead and thrusting the picture at him—he took it automatically, and once he had it, he couldn't help but glance down at it. I continued, laying it on thick: "Our mom just got in a car accident. It's—it's serious, and he's not answering his phone."

He glanced up from the picture to me. I gave him the most miserable look I could muster, and I thought he thawed a bit, but then he looked past me towards Ace and his expression hardened again. "Who's this?" he rumbled.

I glanced over my shoulder as if I'd forgotten all about Ace until that moment. "He's our cousin," I said without missing a beat, glancing back towards the bouncer and taking a short series of holding-back-tears breaths. "I was sc—scared to come alone."

Ace might just have strained a muscle trying not to snort at that, I could practically feel it, but as was often the case, my small build and deceptively youthful appearance combined with that admission of weakness got to the bouncer. He handed me the picture and said, "He went back there about ten minutes ago. He's with Destiny."

"Oh," I said, and I didn't have to fake the relief. "Um. Could… could I—?"

The bouncer looked thoughtfully at me for a moment, and then nodded, turning slightly to the side to make an opening. "Go on." I gave him a tearful smile and slipped past him before he could change his mind, and Ace made to follow, but the bouncer blocked him with his shoulder. "Uh-uh, pal," he growled, pushing him a step back. "You're not gettin' a free show."

Ace started to glare, but before he could screw up our chances I flitted forward and caught his eyes, trying to hold character and make him see that I meant business all at once. "It's—it's okay. Just meet me out back."

He stared doubtfully at me, but another glance at the bouncer seemed to drive it home in his head that a fight didn't seem likely to end well for him, so he met my eyes again and said, "Hurry, or I'm coming back in."

"I'll be fine," I said, and turned to hurry into the back, rummaging in my bag as I went.

There were a lot of guys with dancers in the booths back there, but not a single one of them saw me as I passed, looked them over, and moved on, each one totally focused on the woman in front of him. At booth number four, I hit pay dirt.

Our target was in there with a dancer, and judging by the sloppy smile on his face and the fact that he didn't seem to have any objection to her halfhearted movements, he'd been celebrating his accomplishments. I looked just long enough to confirm to my satisfaction that it was Gunther, then I stuck an arm in the booth, grabbed the dancer by the elbow, and hauled her out.

"Ow! What the—" She cut herself off when I held one of the hundreds I'd taken from the Joker's stash right in front of her eyes.

"Thank you, but I'm taking my brother home," I told her simply.

She didn't seem to have a problem with getting paid to stop working. She snatched the bill from my fingers and was gone in moments.

One hand buried in my purse, resting securely on the hilt of my revolver, I moved into the booth. Gunther's eyes took a second to focus on me, and once they did, he frowned. "I thought they were outta blondes."

I raised an insulted eyebrow and gave myself a quick once-over. I was completely appropriately-attired in jeans and a black v-neck; where the hell did he get off—

I stopped myself. Took a breath. Gave thanks that Ace wasn't here, because he would think that me being mistaken for a stripper was fucking hilarious, and then eyeballed Gunther, trying to figure out where to take it from here. He reached drunkenly for me, and as his hand landed squarely on my ass, I decided I could turn this to my advantage. I grabbed his hand, gave it back to him, and said, "You wanna come with me?"

He blinked. "Where?"

I gave him a coy smile that might have had just a little bit of murder edging it, given that I couldn't stop thinking _this is the imbecile that dared to pull the trigger on the Joker_ over and over and over again. 'That would ruin the surprise," I said simply.

Fortunately, he was way too inebriated to pick up on the warning signs. He just seemed confused. "I'm… pretty comfortable here," he admitted.

My hand had long since left the hilt of my gun and found something else in my bag that would be a bit more useful for my current purposes. "Hold out your hands," I encouraged him. Gamely, he held out both hands, wrists together, palms up. I brought one cuff down and clicked it into place, following it rapidly with the other. This seemed to confuse him more, and he was studying his hands with a woebegone expression until I snapped my fingers, getting his attention again. Once he was looking at me, I showed him the key, then dropped it into my cleavage.

"You gotta come get it," I said, once again unbelievably grateful that Ace wasn't here to witness this, and started to back up.

Finally, the idea started to penetrate the fog of alcohol and reach Gunther's brain. He staggered upright, slanted sideways into the seat, then pushed himself up again and started following me. I backed out into the hall, checked over my shoulder for the bright-lit exit sign I'd scoped out in the way in, and strode briskly back towards it. Gunther, blinded by the drinks and the hope for sex, followed readily.

The exit led to a back alley. Once I'd gotten us both outside, I started looking for Ace, but I didn't have to look for long—he closed the door from where he'd been waiting against the wall and immediately took the butt of his pistol to the back of Gunther's skull, knocking him flat on his face (though in fairness, it probably didn't take much force, what with the amount of booze circling through Gunther's system).

"I'm pissed off," I snarled, immediately digging the keys out of my bra and putting them in my pocket instead.

Ace frowned. "What were those—"

"None of your business. You should worry more about the fact that _that_ —" I gestured emphatically towards Gunther's prone form—"had the balls to shoot the boss. _That_."

"You used your boobs to lure him out here, didn't you?" Ace asked, a smirk starting to curl along his mouth. I took a step forward and swung at him; he ducked. "Easy! I didn't say I thought it was a _bad_ thing!"

"I couldn't give a shit what you think," I growled, turning on my heel and going to stoop beside Gunther, going through his pockets and searching him for weapons or anything he could use to escape. "I just want you to stay focused. We're not in the clear yet."

"Car's at the end of the alley, waiting for cargo," Ace said, having managed to wipe most of the smugness from his face at the reminder that we were working. He caught the closed knife I tossed him, then reached over and took the pistol I found holstered at Gunther's hip, tucking it into the back of his jeans. "You get his hands, I'll take his feet."

"Fine with me," I muttered, still annoyed at the fact that _this guy_ of all people had been the one to shoot the Joker. My only consolation was that he wasn't particularly brave or clever—he simply seemed too stupid to see the folly in it.

Ace and I picked him up and lugged him to the car, tossing him in the trunk. I took a second to duct tape his mouth, just in case he managed somehow to come to before we were able to get him back to the hideout, then Ace closed the trunk and we circled back around to climb in the car and leave the strip club in our tracks.

It was about two forty-five by then, and by mutual (if somewhat begrudging) agreement, we stopped at a 24-hour Chinese place that Ace knew of in the area and got some food to tide us over. The place was takeout-only, so we ate on the street, me sitting on the trunk of the car, Ace leaning back against it, chowing down on our little cartons of fried rice. It turned out that tracking down and abducting a sniper worked up an appetite.

We spent most of the time in thoughtful silence, but as we finished up, Ace said, "You know, you gotta admit, we work well together."

I glared at him and stabbed a chopstick in his direction. "Fuck off. I said no bonding."

"If you think this is _bonding_ you got a screwed-up idea of what bonding is, lady," he snorted, straightening up and dropping his carton to the street, then crunching it under his boot. "I still can't stand you. I'm just saying that I guess it's good to know that the Joker doesn't keep you around for no reason at all."

"Ughh, sappy _shit_ ," I said, hopping off the back of the car and making the trek to the trash can a few feet away—being friends with Pam left its scars, one of which was that I couldn't ever actively litter without feeling guilty. "Back at you, I guess. Now can we _go_?"

Ace just grinned cockily before climbing behind the wheel. I joined him, and we headed home.

By the time we reached the hideout, my second sleepless night in a row was really kicking at the back of my eyes. After I helped carry a still-unconscious Gunther into the hideout, I told Ace what to do with him, and I must have looked as tired as I felt, because he didn't smirk or argue or anything—he just recruited the help of a few of his skinhead guys and they carried Gunther away.

I went down the hallway to the temporary infirmary. The door was closed and George had moved a chair into the hallway across from it, where he was sitting and reading the paper like the old man he was. At the sound of my footsteps, he raised his eyes to me. "You get him?" he asked casually.

I nodded, then slumped slightly against the wall and tilted my head towards the door. "How is he?"

"Ehh, still out. I just checked on him a few minutes ago. His breathing is strong, his color's better, the stitches look fine. If there ever _was_ any danger, it's gone now."

I nodded, another wave of exhaustion hitting me at the news. The Joker was alive and healing, his shooter was in our custody, and I needed to sleep. "I'm going to go rest up a bit," I said. "Will you send someone to wake me if he gets up?"

"Sure thing," George said, returning his attention to his paper. I nodded and turned away.

I made my way to the Joker's room—a room I hadn't slept in for nearly a week. I'd been bedding down in one of the many empty rooms in the hideout, but I figured I could risk actually being comfortable while I slept just this once. I remember hitting the mattress, relaxing completely, then… nothing.

* * *

When I woke up, he was with me.

I went still immediately once I realized who I was sharing the bed with, the memory of the preceding night flooding back to me and with it the knowledge that he needed as much rest as he could get, but naturally, he woke up anyway, because heaven forbid he spend a second asleep once I was conscious. The black eyes flew open as if they'd merely closed for a prolonged blink and settled on me.

I looked at him for a second, taking in the smeared greasepaint (the skin on the tip of his nose was showing through, and the rest was working its way off all over the sheets, but if he didn't care, then neither did I) before offering him a shy smile. "Hey. How are you feeling?"

His eyes darted off to the left and his lips pursed as he checked himself over. After a moment, he frowned and glanced back at me. "Ah… not so good," he admitted.

I frowned as well. For him to _admit_ to feeling less than a hundred percent at any time—well, that must mean it was bad. "Can you tell me what's wrong? Specifically, I mean."

" _Specifically_? I, uh, I think I might be pregnant," he confessed.

I blinked. "Pregnant."

"Uh-huh. See, I haven't gotten a period in… _years_. Yeah, it's been years," he said, nodding decidedly. I snorted gracelessly and then turned my face into the pillow to muffle the following laughter. I faintly heard him say, "Harley. Harley, this is serious," but I was laughing too hard to make much of a response, and he must have sensed that I was already done for, because he didn't push it.

Finally, I got the giggles out of my system, and twisted around to fall backwards against the mattress, letting loose a long, contented sigh. I didn't know what time it was, but I felt fairly well rested, and the fact that the Joker had somehow managed to make his way upstairs and was already cracking wise made me think he was well on his way to recovery. Above everything, I felt relief, and I was determined to bask in it for a second.

Too soon, of course, that second passed, and it was time to deal with reality again. I glanced over at the Joker, letting the golden feeling slip away from me, and I saw that he was propped up on his uninjured arm, leaving the other one clearly in view. It was bandaged over heavily, and the bandages were clean and white, so at least he wasn't going around bursting stitches. _Yet_.

Obviously seeing where my eyes rested, he complained, "Baldy wouldn't let me use whiskey as an anesthetic. What kinda doctor doesn't let his patients at least _drink_ before surgery?"

"Any doctor trained past eighteen seventy, I think," I remarked, reaching for his hand. He was in an indulgent mood— _good_ —and let me take it, and I checked his fingernails and beds. The color was good, and I let him go with a scoff. "You really don't deserve your immune system, you know?"

"No one _deserves_ anything, Harley," he said dismissively. "We get what we get. You _know_ that by now."

"Yeah, fair enough," I muttered, reeling myself upright, crossing my legs, and tilting my head to study him thoughtfully. "You talk to anyone before you got up here?" I asked.

He squinted suspiciously at me. "Ahh… Baldy. Told him not to bother sending anyone for you."

I nodded. _Good_. "And how are you feeling? Up to a little excitement?"

"What _kind_ of excitement?" He sat up suddenly. "You're not hiding handcuffs behind you, are you?"

I laughed, one short, loud, bark, and showed him my hands. "Absolutely not; I learned that lesson. No, I have a present for you."

The suspicious look disappeared in favor of a decidedly predatory one. He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek and repeated slowly, "A present, huh?"

I beamed at him. "You'll like this—but it can wait until you're feeling better, if you want."

He hmphed resentfully and hauled himself to his feet. I followed, giving him a more thorough once-over now that we were both standing and fully visible. He was about as underdressed as he ever got, wearing black sweatpants and a white undershirt that bared pale, slim but sharply-defined arms. The injured arm was hanging loosely from the bandage at his shoulder, and I shot it a pointed look. "Nice to know you're following George's advice about wearing a sling."

He laughed at that. I hadn't really expected him to take it seriously, much less make a serious response, so I just gestured for him to follow me and led him out of the room and downstairs.

At the bottom of the staircase, though, I didn't venture to the rest of the hideout. I simply crossed the room to the doorway that led to the basement stairs and gestured towards them with my head. "After you."

The Joker's eyebrows were arched with interest. He shot me a glance that looked almost amused, then gamely, he headed down the creaking stairs. I followed, closing the door behind us. The stairwell was cast in darkness, but fortunately, someone had left a light on in the basement.

The Joker paused at the bottom, blocking the way, so I had to push him out of my path—I tried doing it gently, but he didn't budge, so I had to use force, and even then only got him to shuffle slightly sideways. I supposed I could forgive him; his eyes were fixed on the man tied to a chair in the middle of the room.

Admittedly, I'd taken a leaf from Cobblepot's book, though I was willing to bet that _our_ torture basement was considerably homier and less pretentious than his—we had none of that blinding, pristine whiteness or surgically-gleaming tools. On the contrary, our basement walls were mildewed and our tools were rusted. Speaking of tools—I was pleased to see that Ace had listened to my instructions and set up a bench on the far wall with various useful implements laid out on it. I strode there right away to examine them and was happily surprised—he'd gotten creative on me. I was a little impressed.

The Joker's voice called my attention back to him. "Ah… your present for me is a _blowtorch_ , Harley? Not that I'm not _grateful_ , but… I've already _got_ one of those."

I glanced at my hand to see that I'd picked up the named item, and I hurriedly placed it back. "Oh! Shit. Yeah." I made my way back to him, taking stock of our prisoner on the way. Gunther was conscious, sweating, and making some ineffectual sounds against the duct tape covering his mouth, but the cuffs locking him to his metal chair were holding tight. He wasn't going anywhere.

I reached the Joker's side and turned to indicate Gunther with a flourish. " _So,_ I have it on good authority that this is Gunther Howard, aka the gunman stupid enough to put a bullet in you. I went and picked him up last night. Ace helped," I added as a begrudging afterthought. "Anyway. He's your present. You can do whatever with him, I don't care. Let him _go,_ if you want. I just wanted you to be able to call it."

The Joker had turned unblinking dark eyes on me. At my conclusion, he licked his lips, and immediately on the heels of my words, he asked, "On _whose_ authority?"

The question threw me, and I frowned. "Uh—what?"

"On whose authority?" he said patiently, glancing sideways at Gunther then back at me. "Who told you _he_ was the guy?"

"Um… that would be Eddie," I said, brow creasing as I frowned, unable to read his expression at all. For the first time, doubt crept up the back of my scalp. "I went to his place after George told me you would be okay. I thought, uh, after the conversation we had the other night… I thought he wouldn't lie about something like this. Was I… wrong?"

He stared blankly at me long enough for the intense sinking feeling I had to settle into a hard pit in my stomach, then all at once he was grinning and I would have hit him for making me worry if he hadn't been freshly shot. "Not at all. Good thinkin', kid." He grabbed my shoulder and turned me towards the door, adding, "Now, if you don't _mind,_ I wanna get to know… uh, Gunther?" He glanced back at the captive sniper, nodded decisively, and said, "Gunther. Okay, sweet pea?" He pressed a quick, noisy kiss to my cheek, told me, "Don't wait up," then shoved me outside of the door and slammed it behind me. The deadbolt clicked into place before I could quite process all that had just happened.

"Oh-kay," I muttered, "I guess he likes it."

Saying it out loud helped it to sink in. I smiled and took a second to lean back against the door, and when I heard a chainsaw revving up, I figured that my presence was unlikely to be required at any point in the near future. Now that that was taken care of, I realized that I was starving. Humming absently to myself, I went up the stairs to see if I could scrounge something up.

* * *

The Joker wasn't _really_ going to open with the chainsaw, of course. Amputating a limb at this point would result in massive, traumatizing blood loss, doubtless resulting in hypovolemic shock, meaning he'd get _really_ boring _really_ fast. No, he just needed to make sure that good ol' Gunther was completely on the hook—and judging from the _nearly impossible_ width of his eyes as they locked onto the chainsaw, he was paying _close_ attention.

_Good._

The Joker let the saw die down and then carried it back over the bench, noting with displeasure that the weight of it was making his shoulder ache something awful. Gunshot wounds were the _pits._ At least Harley had been thoughtful enough to bring him the gunman so he could tell him so _personally_ , and if she'd overstepped her bounds a little in consulting _his_ source in doing so—well, he supposed he could forgive her. She could get a bit overeager, it was in her nature, but in this particular case he decided it was more endearing than obnoxious.

He'd need to do something nice for her. Maybe pay a visit to her father upstate and bring her back his head in a box—she might whine about it for a while, but the Joker _knew_ her. He knew she'd ultimately be happier without the old man creeping along in the back of her skull all the time, and as long as he was alive, he'd _be_ there. Really, the Joker didn't see why anyone other than _he_ should get to leave his fingerprints on Harley.

Gunther was making a struggling grunting noise, calling the Joker's attention back to him again. He watched the gunman from the corners of his eyes as he paced around the edge of the room, picking his way over to an aluminum chair someone had brought down from the upstairs, lifting it easily, and carrying it over to set it down in front of Gunther, all the while keeping an eye on him.

Gunther watched him right back, silent now, wary, clearly trying to decide how this would end. The Joker sat in the new chair, crossed one leg over the other, clasped his knee with both hands, and sat back, narrowing his eyes appraisingly at Gunther as he ran his tongue along the back of the scars, feeling the comfortably slick knots of damaged tissue against the tip of his tongue, constant reassurance that he was exactly who he thought he was.

Finally, bouncing his ankle back and forth, he spoke. "You know, uh, Gunther… this might surprise you to hear, but…" He paused, contorting his face into a disapproving expression and shaking his head rapidly, once—"I've never been a big believer in, ah, gathering information through torture. Anyone who's done their _research_ , you know, knows that people'll tell you exactly what you wanna hear… just to make the _pain_ stop. So we're gonna try things a little differently, okay?"

He met Gunther's eyes and nodded encouragingly, and he spotted a spark of relief as Gunther slowly nodded back. _Good_. He went on: "I'm gonna ask you questions—uh, _yes_ or _no_ questions to start with—and you're gonna answer them honestly. Should be over in a jiffy. You ready?" He tilted his head, drawing his eyebrows up expectantly, and Gunther nodded again, a little faster this time.

" _Great_ ," the Joker said smartly, and he uncrossed his legs, planting both feet on the floor, placing his hands on his knees, and leaning forward. "First question. You weren't on the ground with us; everyone on the ground who wasn't on our team was _dead_. You were set up on the roof of a building nearby, weren't you?"

Poor Gunther looked almost embarrassed, and the Joker tried to make his expression as kindly as possible to set the guy at ease and let him know there were no hard feelings—it didn't seem to work all that well, but hey, at least he could say he _tried_. Despite his obvious misgivings, though, Gunther went ahead and nodded.

_Well, that's one down._

"Oh-kay. Good. Question number two: you weren't just sittin' up there waiting for some random person to pick off, were you? Someone hired you to keep an eye out for _me_ , didn't they?"

Gunther kept on hesitating, but he must have taken stock of himself and confirmed that he really didn't have any hope of escape without outside assistance, because eventually, resignedly, he nodded again.

The Joker squeezed the bones of his knees so tightly that he imagined he could feel them creaking. "Oh, good, _good_. This is going _swimmingly_ ," he assured Gunther. "I just have one more question for you, but, uh, keep in mind—this is the biggie. _Really_ important for you to tell the truth with this, okay, buddy? Oh, here." He reached forward abruptly, and as Gunther flinched violently back, he got hold of the edge of the duct tape covering his mouth—he'd already sweated a corner loose- and ripped it off briskly.

"Ah, fuck!" said Gunther, reacting instinctively to the pain before his brain caught up and he remembered he was—rightfully—supposed to be petrified. The Joker settled back in his seat, regarding the gunman silently, and Gunther seemed to take that silence as bad news, because he started speaking lowly: "Look, man, _please_ —"

"Question number _three_ ," said the Joker loudly, blowing out a breath to get them both geared up and focused. He waited for a second to see if there were going to be interruptions that needed dealing with, but Gunther was at least smart enough to shut up and pay attention and _not_ try to talk again. The Joker tilted his head speculatively and confided, "I already _know_ the answer to this one, by the way. It's more a test than anything else."

A bead of sweat popped out on Gunther's forehead and ran down his greasy face, gathering on his chin. The Joker watched it dispassionately, and when it seemed determined to cling on rather than drip off, he shrugged and moved forward. "Who hired you to _shoot_ me?"

Gunther blinked several times, rapidly. He drew one long, shaky breath, and then, not bothering to fuck around (much to the Joker's delight), he replied, "Oswald Cobblepot."

The Joker pulled hard on the inside of his scars, thinking. _Oh, Ozzie. I woulda thought you'd know better than to hire a sniper who's got the liquor shakes._

He released his scars with a squelch, burying his fingers in his hair at the root and mussing it absently as he thought. Ozzie probably didn't want someone on his usual payroll, someone who could be easily traced back to him. He just hadn't bet on Eddie's involvement.

Slowly, he got to his feet, dropping his hand from his head and wandering over to the bench, where he picked up a pair of pliers and gave them an appraising look. After a second, he put them back down, shaking his head. Like it or not, he'd just been shot _yesterday_ , and as much as he'd enjoy it, he didn't have the energy for a long, drawn-out session. He picked up the chainsaw again.

Gunther, who had been watching him in silence, waiting for some sort of word on his fate, started to splutter and protest. "You said you didn't believe in torture!"

The Joker whirled around, shooting him an incredulous look. "Ah. Weren't you _listening_? I said I didn't believe in gathering _information_ through torture. Now, torture for the _fun_ of it—that's a different thing _entirely_."

Gunther stared in horror for a second, then opened his mouth to scream, but the sound was drowned out completely as the chainsaw roared back to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone needs to chase the Joker down, make him quit handling power tools, and get him to wear a damn sling. He really doesn't deserve to recover as quickly as he does.
> 
> Next up- Harley and J get to spend the whole chapter together, yaaay. About time, what with all these plot developments keeping them separate (sometimes it feels like this story has a mind of its own). Then, naturally, the story starts hurtling even faster to its conclusion. This is the final stretch, y'all, I think there are less than five chapters to go.
> 
> I'd say more, but it's been a hell of a Monday and I'm getting sleepy, so I'll just say you guys rock and I appreciate your commentary and encouragement! I'll be back with the next chapter soon. Feedback is more than welcome!


	19. i could not smother out dead fire in my head

_The clock has stopped ticking_  
_And nothing remotely remotely romantic has been said_  
_Let's not pass on the steps, let's take the season very easy_  
_Let's take pills, salt water - let's keep looking ahead_

**-Timber Timbre, _Bad Ritual ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20hFaQVXjNw))  
_**

One of the henchmen had gotten pizza, and if I'd known which one it was, I would have very sincerely considered kissing him. Of course, kissing a henchman seemed like a bad idea for a number of reasons, so I ditched the idea and went for the pizza instead.

I'd almost forgotten about the way this job worked, the adrenaline rushes blocking out any semblance of appetite until you got to sit down for two seconds, when said appetite came roaring back with a desperate vengeance. I tore through three large slices before I felt even remotely sated, and at that point, I noted that practically all of the henchmen were gathered in the living room. I picked up the remnants of my last piece and went to investigate.

One of the guys had somehow acquired an old video game console and they were having a Mario Kart tournament. I stood leaning against the doorframe watching them yell and laugh at each other, feeling warmth bloom and grow in my chest. Half the time I'd been back I'd been impossibly busy; the other half I'd been intentionally keeping away from them, but after last night's discussions with George and Ace, I got the sense that I wasn't going to be able to do that for much longer. Even though it meant it'd hurt more when I lost them, I liked people too much to hold myself at a distance from them, and scenes like the one in front of me just then were exactly why.

I glanced across the room, and George caught my eye, giving me a knowing look. I pulled a face at him, then someone was saying my name, and I looked at the couch to see Ace, of all people, holding up a Nintendo controller like a challenge. "Ready to prove yourself?"

A low, challenging " _Ooooooooohhhh_ " rose up from henchmen all around the room, and I couldn't help but grin, though all I wanted to do was scold Ace for being halfway decent to me, because it was making it hard to hate him as much as I needed to. "Fine," I yielded, vaulting over the back of the couch to the chorus of a couple of whoops from the others and settling beside Ace, making sure to plant an elbow in his ribs as I took the controller lest he think we were getting too friendly, "but if you guys are all ganging up on me, we are _not_ playing battle."

"Oh, I'll kick your ass at Grand Prix just as easily," Ace said arrogantly, and we were off.

I hadn't actually laid hands on a video game since college, so—understandably, I thought—I sucked, which meant weathering a lot of jeering. It seemed to be in good fun, though, so I accepted it as gracefully as possible, though I wasn't above holding a hand in front of Ace's eyes whenever he made to pass me.

I was the first one to spot the Joker, in part because I was keeping an eye out for him, so when he appeared in the doorway, I paused the game and turned towards him, the guys following suit once they realized what was happening. He didn't immediately acknowledge us, leaning on his uninjured shoulder into the doorframe as he reached up and wiped a spatter of blood away from just under his hairline with the back of his arm—he must have washed his hands, because they were clean, but blood was still streaked in various places on his arms and sprayed across the front of his shirt.

No one spoke, and absently, he wiped the bloodied arm on his dark pants, his gaze skipping across the room and taking in everyone present. Finally, his eyes rested on me, and he spoke: "Everyone out. Mommy and Daddy need to talk."

A palpable air of general unease appeared at that, and the guys all started shuffling and vacating the room. Ace set down his controller and got up, muttering as he did, "More like Mommy and Daddy need to _fuck_ "—and without breaking eye contact with the Joker, I threw a firm backhand right into his stomach as he passed by, getting a satisfyingly forceful huff of pain in response.

In no time at all, though, the guys had vanished, like scurrying cockroaches in the face of a bright light at midnight, and it was just me and him.

As expected, he didn't break his silence once we were by ourselves. He just broke his gaze away from mine and headed into the kitchen with that scuffing, leisurely walk of his, pausing at the pizza box and snatching up a piece before continuing, gnawing at it on the way. I turned and folded my arms across the back of the couch, resting my cheek on them and watching as he leaped onto the counter quite as if he _hadn't_ just been shot, standing up and folding the rather large remainder of his pizza slice in half and shoving it into his mouth to free up his uninjured arm. Then he started searching through the top cabinets.

My suspicions of what, exactly, he was searching for were confirmed when he emerged victorious with a mostly-full bottle of Jack Daniels from one of the cabinets, holding it by the throat as he jumped back down to the floor, then switching it to his other hand so he could reach up and work on the pizza more effectively. I snorted and shook my head. It was early to tell, but judging from his relatively passive body language and the fact that he'd probably taken some of his bloodlust out on Gunther, I figured I was back in his good graces, at least temporarily, so I rolled off of the couch to my feet, going into the kitchen to join him.

He'd kicked a chair out and sat down at the little table in the kitchen, and I went to go stand beside him. He glanced up at me briefly as I approached and gestured at me with the bottle, swallowing the last of his pizza and then saying, "Come on. Drink with me."

I frowned. "I don't think so. I don't much feel like it, and really, I don't think _you_ should be—"

An irate sigh through the nostrils at the start of my sentence was the only warning I got before I felt a sharp little stinging pain in my leg, and as I recoiled, I saw him draw back a little penknife with a two-inch blade that was currently gleaming with my blood. "What the _fuck_ ," I snarled, reaching past the new little slit in my jeans to touch the fresh wound.

"See?" he asked, sounding bored as he wiped the blade off on his pants. "Now we're _both_ injured. If there's _any_ reason to drink, it's _self-medication_."

"We've talked about this before, and _you_ are an asshole," I growled, but resignedly, limping ever-so-slightly, I went to go search for a halfway-clean glass. As I did, he pulled a cigarette from a soft pack abandoned on the table and ignited it using the lighter left there. Given how my first attempt at trying to dissuade him from consuming toxins in his recovery state had gone, I didn't protest this time.

I pulled out the chair opposite him, setting the chipped but clean highball glass I'd located down in front of the bottle, he sloshed a few fingers of whiskey in for me. I lifted the glass to him in a silent "Cheers" salute, figuring I might as well lose with good grace, he clinked the bottle against the bottom of it, and we both drank, him for longer than me.

It was straight whiskey with no ice, but I'd gotten plenty of experience taking shots in college and even more at clubs with Pam in recent years, and I always had liked Jack. I swallowed half of the alcohol back in one go, grimaced, and swished the remaining whiskey around in the glass as I tried to breathe past the burn of that first drink. The Joker, at length, brought the bottle down from his own lips, set it on the table, and finally met my eyes again.

I raised an eyebrow. "So?"

He just shrugged, bringing the cigarette to his mouth and pulling. Only after he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke did he seem ready to talk. " _Oswald_ sent him."

Truthfully, I'd expected something along those lines. I nodded and frowned, tracing the lines of my glass thoughtfully. "Yeah, well, we knew he suspected you. Now I guess he knows for sure, huh?"

The Joker scratched his temple with the ring finger of his cigarette hand, scraping off some of the already fading paint, and he popped his tongue lazily in the corner of his mouth before speaking. "Well, if he _doesn't_ , he's an idiot. I mean, don't get me wrong—he's an idiot either way. But not _that_ kind of idiot. He knows, all right."

"So what's the plan, _commendatore_? Should we just blitz the Iceberg, or are we waiting to see what his next move is?" I tried to hide the nervousness in my voice with casual sarcasm, but it fell flat, and I knew he could tell even before he shot me a knowing look out of the corners of his eyes. I couldn't help it—even with a day and a few hours of sleep putting some distance between me and the event in question, I kept remembering Steele, strung up in that basement, and the fact that Cobblepot had actually gotten close enough to put a bullet in the Joker didn't do anything to ease my fears. There was a fairly substantial part of me that didn't really believe the Joker _could_ die, but by this point, the Penguin had made it clear that he wasn't fucking around. If the Joker's plan involved him taking unnecessary risks—and it probably would, knowing him—then I might just flip the table.

Again, he didn't answer right away. His gaze strayed over to the opposite wall, where it stayed locked for a minute or two while he smoked. I waited patiently, but I still jumped a bit when his eyes abruptly resettled on me, and as he knocked a stack of ash from the cigarette, he said, "I think it's time for you to do your thing."

I stared uncomprehendingly at him. "My _thing_?" I asked, confused. It wasn't all that clear, after all—I did lots of things for this job, but none of them seemed particularly helpful or relevant at this immediate point in time.

"Yeah," he said, moving his hand in a lazy, clockwise circle. "Your… _shrink_ thing. Time to knock the dust off, hmm?"

"I'm sorry," I said, "I'm still not getting it."

He took a drag, heaved a deep sigh, and then, in a tone of exaggerated patience, he said, "I want you to _analyze_ me, Harley."

I sank my teeth into my bottom lip, frowning, thinking that his 'explanation' was not helping me see his angle at _all_ but wary of expressing confusion three times in a row. Instead, I took the simplest route I could think of that wouldn't get me slapped or snapped at and asked, "Why?"

This time, his sigh was distinctly more irritated, and he seized the bottle and took a pull from it. After growling past the burn, he said rapidly, "You think he doesn't have people on call? _Shrink_ people, people he's consulting? Cobblepot thinks he's a _chessmaster_ , Harley; he's gonna be tryin' to figure out what I'm gonna do before I _do_ it."

"And you think I can tell you what he thinks you're going to do next?"

" _Ob_ viously."

 _Well. At least it makes some kind of sense._ Still, I wasn't particularly keen on getting the Joker on my couch again, especially not after my rants about the uselessness of the field of psychology applied to unique personalities—and he was the king of unique, to say the least.

Still, if he was asking me to do it, it wasn't as if I could say _no_. I regarded him warily, held out an index finger, and lifted my glass with my other hand, gulping down the rest of my whiskey, then tapped the bottom on the table in a nonverbal request. Indulgently, he sloshed more into my glass, and only then did I take a breath and meet his eyes again. "Okay. Starting now?"

"Starting _now_ ," he said, stubbing his cigarette out on the table, flicking the butt somewhere onto the kitchen floor, and then lacing his fingers together and regarding me with a beatific expression that I didn't trust for a second.

Looking at him across the table, a bundle of nerves, I felt something else stirring in me, and it didn't take me long to place it. It was that old sense of defiance that used to rise up in response to a particularly challenging patient, the distinct feeling of _I'll be damned if I let you get the better of me, asshole_. Of course, I knew how dangerous the Joker was, and I knew that he was _more_ than capable of knocking me on my ass—figuratively and literally. Suddenly, though (and maybe it was the alcohol), I didn't care. He was asking for an analysis? He'd get one.

I sat up straight, folded my hands in my lap, and scrutinized him through narrowed eyes. He blinked innocently at me, and I said abruptly, "Well, Cobblepot isn't going to know anything about you other than what's on your official record and what he's managed to gather himself, so if it's all right with you, I'll limit the information I'm taking into account to that."

"Of course," he acknowledged softly.

"I guess you know that your file at Arkham was an absolute wreck, so that's not going to give them much help. Practically every doctor had a different idea of what they thought was wrong with you."

He tilted his head sharply, curious. "And you? What did _you_ write down in those little notebooks you kept? …what did _you_ think was wrong with me?"

I shot him a hard grin. "No dice, Handsome. I didn't get that far."

He shot me a woeful look. "Oh, but there must have been _something_. Some suspicion of, uhh, ohhh, let me guess: schizophrenia? Borderline personality disorder? Don't leave me in suspense, Doc—throw me a _bone_ here."

 _Doc_. He pretty much exclusively called me that when he was pissed off with me, but this time, it sounded… different. I realized then that I wasn't alone in flashing back to our old sessions, and I also realized that I could immediately bring us back to where we were now by giving in, telling him exactly what he wanted to know like I normally would.

Instead, I gave him a small smile and said, "Oh, but what I _thought_ is completely irrelevant given what we're trying to do, so I think we should stay on point here. Don't you agree?"

One his eyebrows darted up for a split second, and I swore the scars twitched at one corner of his mouth, but before I could figure out if that was bad or good, he'd pulled it back and was nodding at me, his expression carefully blank. "Go on," he purred, shaking another cigarette free, placing it between his lips, and lighting it.

I felt energy hum along my skin as the doctor persona started to settle in for the first time in a _long_ time. I held my shoulders straight, studied him, and at length, I continued. "Your history shows a pattern of… well, for lack of a better way of putting it: controlled chaos. There's no shortage of panic or mayhem among those involved in your ventures, but _you_ … you always seem to know exactly what's going to happen, no matter how impossible it may seem. That indicates uncanny mental capabilities, an ability to keep track of all the different threads that play into your plans with ease."

"Awww, _shucks_ , doc," he hissed, a cloud of smoke accompanying the sibilant sounds on the way out of his mouth. "You sure know how to _flatter_ a guy."

"It's not flattery if it's true," I said, unaffected. "The flipside, of course, is that mental capabilities like that frequently come with… a sort of breakdown in the barriers more average minds come with, barriers that keep their day to day life—not to mention their mental health—organized and manageable. Most of the great artists had what most people in the field would call mental illness. That's what Cobblepot's consultants will be focusing on."

He expelled another cloud, then laid his hands palms up on the table, flicking his fingers challengingly. "Lay it on me, Doc. What kinda _mental illnesses_ are they gonna ascribe to me _now_?"

"Well," I said, treading lightly as I approached the subject, "no one in Gotham could fail to notice your… peculiar relationship with Batman."

"Mmm?" he said invitingly, not warning me off of the topic—yet.

Encouraged, I said, "Well, most people living a criminal lifestyle—especially one as grandiose and visible as yours—would be focused in large part on eliminating the threats to that lifestyle. Certainly, you've done your share of damaging the police force, and you've put holes in Gotham's various mob families. Strangely, though, the biggest threat to your career—the Bat—is also the one that you seem… oddly invested in protecting."

He didn't say anything at that, just squinted almost suspiciously at me. I hurried to defend my stance: "In putting a hit out on—what was his name—Reese?" I nodded. "Reese, last year. When he threatened to expose Batman, you jumped to prevent that from happening. Now, with what's happened since then, no one is going to believe it's because the two of you are on good terms. Still, it's one of the only concrete things anyone knows about you: you think Gotham is more interesting _with_ a Batman than without one. And Cobblepot's people, if they're any good, are going to read into that. They're going to see it as evidence of a destructively thrill-seeking personality, you know, someone who doesn't care how any given encounter turns out, as long as he has a good time in the process."

Keeping his eyes thoughtfully locked on me, he reached out, grabbed the bottle, and took a swig from it. Mouth full, he gestured for me to continue. I didn't really need the encouragement, though—at this point, I was back in it. I even felt my fingers twitching, craving a pen.

"So, taking into account evidence of that thrill-seeking personality combined with obsessive fixation… if he's smart, Penguin is going to try to draw out Batman, and he'll make it noisy and messy—something that you'll catch wind of, something that you'd literally _die_ rather than miss. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd actively stage things to endanger Batman, cause that way he gets two birds with the single stone. You show up the conquering hero, snipers positioned across the roof get you in their sights…" I met his eyes. "It'd be over. If you were foolhardy enough to fall for it."

Watching me through narrowed eyes, the Joker asked, "You _sure_ you wanna give Ozzie that much credit?"

I recognized the warning in his tone and pulled back immediately. "No, of course not. It's just a theory, something that _could_ happen if he's been paying attention. Obviously I don't know that it _will._ "

" _Obviously,_ " he repeated, an edge of mocking to his tone, and that false sense of authority I'd been acting on melted away. It was replaced with nervousness, and I dropped my eyes, reaching forward for my glass, throwing back the remaining alcohol, and standing up. Just to have something to do, I took the glass to the sink and washed it out.

Half of me was expecting the Joker to make some sort of move next, so despite the fact that he didn't make the slightest noise in the process of moving, I didn't jump when I felt the air shift and grow warmer behind me. I exhaled silently through my nose, set the clean glass on the counter, then set one hand on either side of the sink, leaning into them. His left hand, the one belonging to the uninjured arm, came around and landed firmly on mine.

When he spoke, his breath was warm against my ear, his voice low and as pleasant as it ever got—which naturally meant I couldn't trust it. "Aren't you _forgetting_ something, Harley?"

I hunched forward, trying to escape the oppressive feel of him so I could think—not that it ended up doing me any good: in response, he inched forward so that his chest was pressed lightly against my back. I tried not to think about the fact that given the content of our conversation, his attention likely spelled danger. I also tried not to be distracted by the fact that it felt like I hadn't seen or touched him in weeks, though it was difficult with him standing so very close. I pushed past those distracting bits of information and managed to mumble, "Since you're asking me that question, I guess I am."

"Mm," he said affirmatively, reaching up with his other hand and tucking a few stray strands of hair behind my ear—simultaneously sending goosebumps down the back of my neck and across the span of my shoulders, goosebumps that I was certain he could see given that I was just wearing a thin-strapped black tank top. A moment later, he leaned forward and rested his chin comfortably on my shoulder, making no moves to lift his imprisoning hand off of mine—if anything, he leaned heavier into it.

"Cobblepot _might_ have picked up on the, er, _friendly_ competitive relationship I have with Bats… but uh, frankly, I'd be surprised, since we've given him a _much_ more interesting one to focus on. Well. Interesting for _him_ ; I doubt he sees Batman as anything more than a creeping little _pessssst_."

I turned my head slightly, and he tilted his in response so that I could see his suggestively-lifted eyebrows. "You're talking about me."

He nodded, his chin pressing into my shoulder with the movement. I faced front again, frowning in thought. Cobblepot _did_ seem to have taken an interest in me, especially in my capacity as the Joker's right hand. Still… "You think he'll bet on _me_ as the way to reach you over _Batman_?"

I felt the Joker shrug with his uninjured shoulder, feeling the bones jab into my back with the motion. "He's done it once before."

"Yeah, 'cause _you_ gave him my location," I said, not without a hint of irritation, as unwise as it was to let on to that annoyance given my position.

He gave me a single, throaty chuckle in response to that before saying, "Just keep those peepers _wide_ open, Harley. Don't let 'em get the jump on you."

"I think I can promise that as long as _you_ don't tell him where I am again."

"Now, how could I possibly benefit from doing that?"

"I don't know," I said, a bit sourly. "Maybe you'd think it was funny."

He laughed again, making me think I wasn't that far off, and then he was withdrawing his hand from mine and pulling away from me slightly. In response to the new freedom, I turned around, keeping my back against the sink out of necessity—he was still standing so close I could barely breathe without touching him. I resisted the urge to reach for him right then (I was wary of initiating contact when he was freshly wounded; he tended to lash out unexpectedly, as the fresh little hole in my thigh attested) and instead lifted my eyes to his inquisitively.

He flashed me a yellowed grin as soon as I was looking at him, and then, ducking his head deviously to align his eyes with mine, he asked, "So. _Doc_. What _did_ you write in your notebooks about me?"

My immediate impulse was to smirk in response to that, though I tried very hard not to. _I knew he was curious; he's too into himself not to be_. Despite the fact that I knew denying him _anything_ was playing with fire, I couldn't resist—I dropped my eyes and, casually, I said, "Don't you think that's irrelevant? Things are different now."

His silence prompted me to glance up at him, and I registered that dangerous light in his eyes half a second before he grabbed me by the back of his head, his fingers winding themselves into the hair there and tightening painfully, prompting me to stand on tiptoe to try and keep him from yanking a fistful of hair out of my scalp. Aside from his eyes, his expression hadn't changed—he was still looking almost playfully at me as he growled, "In _dulge_ me."

He was _so close_ , and I knew it was fucked up given that I was about two seconds from having my face bashed against the counter if I didn't start talking, but I wanted nothing more than to pull myself closer to him and press my lips against the underside of his jaw, that small patch of rough skin where the paint had worn off. Admittedly, my heavy breathing was as much caused by that sudden impulse and the heat it sent rushing through me as it was by the pain and sharp fear of him prickling at my chest. He knew it, too; I could see by the way his eyes narrowed in distinctly unkind amusement.

I knew full well I could get out of this without surrendering. His bandaged shoulder was right there in easy reach; all I needed to do was jam my fingers into the gunshot wound, pop those stitches—he'd yank back, or at the very _least_ loosen his grip; I could slip away and run off while he was trying to blink his way past those new, sharp waves of pain. However, I found that I didn't think the victory would be worth it. In addition to the fact that it would definitely land me in the doghouse again, a place in which I felt I'd spent _quite_ enough time lately, I simply didn't want to part from his nearness so soon.

So I gave in. I pulled myself backwards and up, sitting on the edge of the counter with the sink at my back in order to get a little more height and relieve the pain a bit, and, looking him in the eye, I said, "In my official file, I was working on a report that stated above anything, the signs pointed to a powerful and deep-set antisocial personality disorder. I wrote that you showed at least four of five of Millon's subtypes—specifically, nomadism, malevolence, risk-taking, and reputation-defending."

He loosened his grip slightly in response to my cooperation, and slowly, he tilted his head to the side, that dangerous light fading, replaced gradually by curiosity. He licked his lips and nodded slightly, signaling that I should go on, and I glanced off to the side as I tried to recall my reports exactly.

"Under 'nomadism,' I wrote that it was remarkably unusual that there was no evidence of you ever existing on paper. No criminal record tied to your prints. The police went through the backlog of incident reports of teenagers and young men suffering injuries like yours—" I glanced back at him, tilting my head to indicate his scars—"and despite going through twenty years' worth of files, they got absolutely nothing. Nothing showed up when they ran your mugshot against facial recognition technology… there was just a general lack of any sort of trail, which I reported must be attributed to a _long_ history of staying in motion, never staying still long enough for anyone to compile information on you.

"Under malevolence," I continued in response to his encouraging nod, "I cited the regularity with which you did harm to your fellow human beings, persistent whether or not you were in danger of capture and punishment. You wanted to hurt people; it was a distinct facet of your personality. Risk-taking was self-explanatory—you got yourself locked up in the Major Crimes Unit shortly after your first appearance all for a _plot_ ; fear of failure or retribution doesn't factor into your decisions. _Ever_. And as far as reputation-defending—I wrote that you were the most narcissistic patient I'd ever worked with, and that you would take personal and vicious steps against anyone casting doubts to your capabilities.

"I was never able to form a solid argument for the covetous subset, although I had my suspicions, so that didn't make it into my file, but altogether, in my opinion, you had the most malicious form of antisocial personality disorder I had ever seen. Efforts at treatment would likely be futile considering your utter lack of conscience and remorse. Indefinite confinement recommended." As I concluded, I met his eyes again, unflinching, waiting for some sort of retribution—history told me he didn't react well to people trying to tie him up with a neat little bow.

His response was underwhelming.

"Hmm," he said, pressing his lips together thoughtfully, arching his brows, and letting go of my hair, putting his hands instead on the countertop on either side of me. He narrowed his eyes, looking closely at me as I started to feel self-consciousness rush in—I ducked, reaching up and rubbing the back of my head to soothe the residual pain; he lifted his hand and caught my chin, lifting my head again so I had to meet his eyes.

"Harley," he said, "where's that file _now_?"

I felt a stab of fear, and I know it showed in my eyes. "I… kept it in my office at Arkham. They probably… I mean, I think it would be either in my file or yours. It's inadmissible no matter what," I stammered. "I never officially filed it, and anyway, given that shortly thereafter I would run off and become, y'know, your _accomplice_ , it would be considered unreliable analysis."

"Hmm," he said again, releasing my chin and replacing his hand beside me, his gaze going distant as he looked past me in thought. After a second, he shook himself visibly and returned his eyes to mine. "Ah, it doesn't matter."

"It doesn't?" I asked hesitantly.

He gave me a sly grin. "If they get somehow hold of it and think it'll _help_ 'em, they're _welcome_ to it. After all… well, what do you think, Harley? Do you stand by that report now?"

I shook my head slowly. "Absolutely not. I mean, I maintain that what I observed was accurate, but… there's _way_ more to you than what I put in that file. You can't be narrowed down to some… fucking diagnosis; I realized that a long time ago." I shot him a slight smile and added, " _They're_ not gonna know that, though."

" _Exactly_ ," he said simply, and drew back from me.

I was distinctly disappointed. I could have sat there, doing nothing but silently basking in his nearness for hours, and I felt suddenly cold in his absence. I wrapped my arms around myself, staying put and watching him as he went across the room, picked up the bottle of Jack, and took a long pull from it once again.

After swallowing it back, he swayed slightly and dropped into his chair. He bent double for a second, and I kept a concerned eye on him, although I didn't immediately act—drinking that much alcohol in one go could necessitate some recovery; I'd pulled the very same move more times than I could count. Sure enough, in seconds, he reeled upright again. There was something in his hand.

It was one of his nastier knives, a big hunting blade, eight inches, fixed blade, serrated along the bottom half. He must have been carrying it in a holster on his ankle—the man's clothes were like Mary fucking Poppins' bag when it came to knives; I wouldn't be surprised to find there were six more on his person. He turned it back and forth in the light, admiring the gleam running up and down the blade, and then, casually, he asked, "You ever think you might know too much _about_ me, Harley?"

The question was accompanied by a glance out of the corners of his eyes that was nothing less than menacing. My heart had started hammering away at twice its usual speed the second he'd pulled out the knife, and the question didn't help my sudden fear.

However, I found I couldn't summon the barest trace of my self-preservation instinct to the surface. The last twenty-four hours had served as a visceral reminder of just how much I cherished him. I wasn't going to make a break for it _now_.

Instead, I vaulted off the countertop and swiftly crossed the room to him. As his alert eyes tracked my movements, I dropped to a knee in front of his chair, draping one elbow across his thighs to draw myself close and reaching up with my other hand, grabbing the wrist of his knife hand. Indulgently, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly in interest, he let me move his hand until I had positioned the knife against my throat, close enough that I could feel the jagged hooks pricking lightly against the thin skin there.

I lifted my eyes to his, and with a certainty I felt down to my bones, I said, "If that's the case—if you think me being whatever I am to you is endangering you, or even if you've decided you just don't _like_ it—then go ahead. I mean, I'm guessing the boys already have a mess to clean up downstairs. What's another body in another big-ass pool of blood? Hell, some of the guys would probably _whistle_ while they mopped up."

An unidentifiable light flashed in the Joker's eyes; he bared his teeth for a fraction of a second, then his other hand was twisted in the hair at the back of my head once more in one calculated move that removed any freedom I'd had to change my mind and pull away. I inhaled sharply through my nose, unable to control the spike of fear I felt as I realized my life was well and truly in his hands now, but I managed to keep my eyes open and locked on his, because really, when _hadn't_ it been ever since I'd made that fatal decision to join him all those months ago?

His fist clenched in my hair and the blade pushed so close to my neck that I thought it might already be drawing blood. Then, his mouth twitched, and I had time to identify the same look in his eyes that he wore when he was getting out scot-free from a particularly sticky Batman encounter before he was drawing me up higher on my knees and bending down to meet me halfway, his mouth colliding roughly with mine.

The knife was still at my throat, and it occurred to me that this might just be his twisted way of saying goodbye before tearing into my trachea and sentencing me to drown in my own blood. I knew this, but decided that there was no point worrying about it—if it happened, it happened. Instead, I dropped my hand from his wrist and lowered it to join the other, gripping his thighs hard enough to bruise as I returned his attentions without reservation.

After a few moments, he simply dropped the knife—it nicked my arm on the way down, but fortunately didn't cause any serious injuries. Without once breaking contact, he drew me up into his lap.

Things progressed from there.

Later, we'd made it back into his room, and I was feeling rather guilty—he seemed more worn out than I'd ever seen him, and I scolded myself for forgetting about the trauma his body had been through so recently in pursuit of my own desires. _Don't do that again_ , I ordered myself sternly even as I surreptitiously checked his bandages while he dozed on his back, making sure he hadn't popped any stitches during our exertions.

Reassured that there were no fresh bloodstains, which was evidence enough to convince me that the injuries were mostly undisturbed (at least, it would have to keep me content until it was time to change the bandages and I could get a better look), I stretched out on my side next to him and laid a gentle arm across his torso. At some point, he'd lost his shirt, and before long, I found my fingers tracing the expanse of skin I so rarely got the opportunity to touch.

The Joker's entire body was a road map of scars, very few of which I'd been allowed to examine closely at any point. A lot of them were fresh, from the last two years since his debut as the Joker, but there were so _many_ that were older, a lot of them practically invisible by now, just little white spots scattered all over. I'd mostly given up trying to puzzle together his elusive past, but still, my brain churned as I ran my fingertips over the raised patches of skin studding his chest and stomach.

As I traced a particularly knotty spiderweb of shining, smooth skin, the Joker spoke out of nowhere despite the fact that there wasn't the slightest change in his breathing to signal that I'd woken him up: "Harley, if you don't settle down and _stop_ that, I'm going to push you off of this bed."

I pulled my arm back immediately, curling up against him instead. "Sorry," I whispered, pressing my forehead to his uninjured shoulder. "Go back to sleep; I won't bother you anymore."

"What're you _doing_ , anyway?" he grumbled, sounding disgruntled, but the shoulder beneath me shifted as he reached to put his arm around my shoulders, the sleepy action belying his annoyed tone.

I closed my eyes, burrowing into him and releasing a breath that sounded shakier than I intended for it to. Instead of answering him directly, I thought about all those scars and all the sons of bitches that had put them there, and I said, "I don't think anyone's smart enough to kill you. I don't think there's much chance you'll _ever_ leave this earth unless it's entirely on your terms. But if they ever _did_ kill you—if those motherfuckers got lucky, if a stray bullet happened to hit you in _just_ the right place…"

The thought served to choke me into temporary silence. The Joker didn't say anything, didn't move, and at length, I was able to push past the feeling that my heart had risen up to block my throat, as if by not _speaking_ of the possibility of his death, I could _eliminate_ that possibility. I curled tighter against him, and, forcing the words through clenched teeth, I said "I swear to you, I'll burn this _entire_ fucking city to the ground. I won't stop till the place is fucking _leveled_."

He was silent for a few seconds, then his low laughter rippled through the dark, and he was tightening his arm around me, pressing an absent kiss to the side of my forehead. "I believe you," was all he said, but it was all I needed to hear. I breathed out, long and slow, and, feeling safer and more secure than I had in months, I drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poster children for a healthy relationship, these two. At least they seem to be having fun?
> 
> Sorry this was so delayed- I've been a little distracted lately because I'm working towards making my original writing available & free for anyone who wants to read it (which, you know, I've only got one novel totally finished at the moment but that's set to change pretty soon). On that note, if you're interested in reading about, I don't know, vampires (who don't give a toss about humans as anything but food), miscreants, probably witches, and generally a lot of various bad people kissing one another, then I should have some word on where you can find that by the time this story is ending.
> 
> All right, plug finished. Two notes probably of no interest at all, but one, we've officially passed the word count of Bad Jokes, and two, it took some kinda level of self-control not to make "Take Me to Church" the song for this chapter. Don't ask. I went with my somewhat moodier first choice because it seemed to suit the night Harley and J are having.
> 
> Next up: more Pam and George, a gunfight, and shit hits the fan in a very real way. Thoughts, comments, and questions are more than welcome (and hella encouraging). You all rock. See you next time!


	20. fight them soft

_soon, they will be here_  
_to take me away from my home…_

**Sóley, Fight Them Soft ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oSB-rsQYisk))  
**

I'd let the subject go for then, since the Joker either didn't yet have a plan solid enough to discuss or he didn't feel like sharing whatever plan he _did_ have, but I knew that the feeling of security I'd let myself bask in for the night was just an illusion. Sooner or later, whether it was through me, through Batman, or through some other unforeseen channel, shit was going to go down with Cobblepot. I began to make what preparations I could the very next day.

It took me a little while to throw everything together, and in the process, I found the time to give Pam a call to see how her meeting with Eddie had gone.

"That man is the most arrogant, irritating person I have ever met in my life," was her succinct take on the situation.

"Wow. More so than Crane?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but yes, more so than Crane."

"So you got along, then."

She blew out an irritated sigh. "Why is it that all the men you meet these days are obnoxious assholes, Harley?"

"Hey, _you_ were the one who said you wanted to meet up with the guy and see he was a threat. I just arranged it, so remind me again how this is _my_ fault."

"I should have poisoned his drink," she mused grumpily. After a second of brooding, she rallied. "Oh, well. There's always next time."

"Wait a sec. _Next time_?"

"Yes; we exchanged contact information."

" _What_?"

"Well, he already had mine, the cheeky prick. But I got his."

"Pam, what the hell? I thought you didn't like him."

"I _don't_ ," she said, sounding genuinely bemused.

"So why on _earth_ would you give him your number?"

"Oh, come on, Harley, this isn't high school. Even though I find his personality grating, he _was_ bright enough to see the connection between me and Pennington, which means he could prove to be a useful man to know in the future. And," she said, sounding begrudging, "he can hold his own in a conversation about the botanical sciences, even if his opinions about them are absolutely medieval. Further discussions with him won't be pleasant, but they could potentially be helpful."

I was shaking my head despite the fact that our conversation was being held over the phone and she couldn't see me. "Pam, sometimes I don't understand you."

That was enough to get a laugh out of her. "Harley. I don't like people—which is fine, because they all seem to think I'm a grating bitch. _You're_ about the only person in the world that I can stand who also seems to like me _back_. And I'm all right with that, it suits me, but it also means that out of necessity I have to put aside my feelings about people when a relationship with them looks like it could be productive. Hence Eddie."

"I'm sure he _loved_ hearing that."

"Oh, I think he's much the same way. Really, things between us should be fruitful."

"Right," I said doubtfully. I never would understand the way Pam chose to stride through life, but I supposed I didn't necessarily _have_ to—it was enough that we were friends. "I should tell you, though, if you're planning anything… I don't know, _criminal_ over the next couple of weeks, maybe you should delay it, or try to be quiet about it, at the very least."

She paused for a moment, then, sounding a bit interested but mostly worried, she asked, "Should I be concerned?"

"No more than usual," I said vaguely.

"Okay, so a lot," she replied promptly in flat exasperation.

"Look, something big is probably going down shortly. I wouldn't want you to accidentally get caught in the crossfire, that's all."

"Dangerous?"

"Obviously."

"Obviously," she repeated with a sigh. There was a long pause, and then, quietly, she said, "Look after yourself. Don't get caught again, or worse, killed."

"I won't," I said, sounding more chipper than I felt. I could practically hear her shaking her head at me.

"All right, I'd better go," she said at length. "If I don't get the tiger lilies in the sun soon, they'll rebel."

"Okay, crazy plant lady."

She laughed scornfully, and in that laugh I could hear every last opinion she had about _me_ bandying the word 'crazy' about. "Good _bye_ , Harley."

"Bye," I sang out.

The next day, I tended to another loose end.

I found George cleaning guns in the kitchen. I waited till he was finished with the pistol he'd been working on, and then I rapped lightly on the doorframe to get his attention.

He glanced at me with a knowing look that made me think he'd been aware I was watching him since I started. "Help you with something, kid?"

"Yes, actually. Can you come with me for a second? I want to talk to you."

"Sounds ominous," he said dryly, but got up from his chair willingly enough, pressing a hand to his back as he moved. I frowned, immediately concerned.

"You okay?"

"Ah, standard aches and pains," he replied dismissively. "Take it from me: look after yourself now so that when you get old you won't be miserable all the fucking time."

 _Well, it's encouraging that there's someone who thinks I'll get old._ I gave him a smile and indicated with a tilt of my head that he should follow me. I led him to one of the unoccupied rooms near what I'd taken to calling the armory, checking to make sure there was nobody nearby before closing the door behind us.

George was watching me astutely. "You're up to somethin'," he noted.

"Yep," I agreed.

"Okay," he said resignedly. "Well, before you get down to it, since I might not get another chance, I wanna talk to you about something that definitely isn't my place to talk to you about."

I couldn't help flashing him another smile. "Now, _that_ sounds ominous. Go ahead, lay it on me."

He stood there for a second just watching me, and in that brief silence I thought he was about to change his mind, pull back from whatever personal thing he was about to say and tell me to get on with it. The moment passed, though, and he spoke. "Look, kid, I've been keeping one eye on you since you got back. Just, you know, making sure things didn't get too rough for you. Of course, I realized quick enough that that was a fuckin' stupid thought—you're _more_ than capable of handling yourself around these mugs."

I laughed, and the sound of it pulled the closest thing I'd ever seen to a smile from him. He went on: "I also picked up on the fact that you didn't seem to want much to do with anyone but the boss—which I thought was smart, you know? This is a rough group, probably best to keep your distance from them. But every now and again…" He paused, sucked at his teeth thoughtfully and shook his head. "I caught sight of somethin'. Like you wanted to engage but decided against it at the last second."

He met my eyes. "The other night, playin' that stupid video game with the guys, I saw it full blast. You're a social animal, Harley, and somethin' about you—I don't know, kid, you just make people _like_ you. Even that miserable little twerp _Ace_ seems like he doesn't mind being around you. And of course, that would mean nothing, except I think you feel the same way about people. Now, again, this is none of my business. I have no idea why you've been holdin' everybody at arm's length—maybe it's the boss's orders, maybe a little goes a long way for you, I don't know. But if it's because you think they wouldn't like you or, I don't know, that you'd be happier not knowing them, I think you might want to reconsider. You light up, being around people like that."

I didn't say anything for a thoughtful second or two, and it was long enough to make him feel self-conscious, because he cleared his throat, glanced around, and said, "Anyway. That's all I wanted to say. You can feel free to disregard all that."

"No," I said, meeting his eyes. "No, George, you're… you're right. It's actually something I've been thinking about lately, a realization I've come to, and part of why I asked you in here to talk."

I paused, feeling around for the words to express what I wanted to say, and George waited patiently as I spoke softly and hesitantly. "See, right before being committed to Arkham… one of the guys who was with me died. I mean, our guys die all the time, right? But this one had been around since before I joined up. He was a friend, more so than the others who had come and gone in the time between. It was the first hard loss I'd taken since I joined up in this game, so while I was all alone in Arkham, I decided it would be better just to stay disconnected, you know?"

"Believe it or not, I know the feeling," he said wryly. I shot him a pained smile.

"Yeah, exactly. But—you telling me this now just confirms what I've been realizing lately. I'm just not cut out to keep a distance from the people I'm around; I _like_ them too much. I've made friends completely by accident here already, and that's with me trying my _best_ to stay detached. I liked _you_ from that first night, when you basically filed a complaint through me."

"Yeah, that complaint still stands, by the way. Those clown masks are stupid."

I laughed, though the sound came out a bit shaky. "Yeah, well, that's the downside to being the hired help, I'm afraid." I paused, looking at him fondly and gathering my strength for the next part.

Observant as he was, he picked up on it. "You look like you're saying goodbye, Harley. Should I be worried?"

"No, you shouldn't be worried," I said, and then, after a short pause: "But yes. This is goodbye, I hope."

He frowned at me, and I stepped aside to reveal the duffel bag lying on the floor. Tilting my head towards it, I said, "That's two million from the last Penguin score. I want you to take it and get out and away from all this."

George looked at the bag for a long moment, then, eyes still downcast, he said, "Harley, I appreciate what you're trying to do—believe me—but I don't think it's gonna work."

"Oh, it'll work," I said, putting some steel into my voice.

"I'm not just gonna up and run off with the Joker's money, kid. He takes that kind of thing personally."

"Oh, yeah? Because I asked him the other day what he wanted to do with it. He looked at me like he didn't know what I was talking about, and when I explained, he told me to burn it for all he gave a damn. See, with J, it's more about the _taking_ than the _having_ , right?"

"Yeah… somehow I think it'll be different in this case."

"Look, I'm going to make sure that the other guys get a cut, too. Not quite as much as you, but hey, I guess now our operation offers a pension."

George finally met my eyes, and I could see that he was trying to figure out how to refuse me in a way that I'd accept. Unfortunately for him, I'd already decided that there was no such way, and I stepped towards him, lowering my voice urgently. "Listen, George. I've decided that I can't stay detached anymore; that's something I'm going to have to deal with. But what I absolutely _refuse_ to deal with is watching _you_ die. For a whole host of… truly psychologically fucked-up reasons, I care more about you than should be possible, given the fact that I've only known you for a couple of weeks. Shit's about to get really serious around here. A lot of people are probably going to die. You're _not_ going to be one of them."

He sighed slowly, but he'd stopped arguing for a second, so I pressed the advantage. "I know the appeal of this job. I know you want to take out as many cops as you possibly can, but I also know that part of why you're here is simply that you need some kind of living. Two million isn't exactly a fortune, but you take care of it and it'll stretch. And as far as the cops… George, you got the motherfuckers who murdered your daughter. Don't you think you can leave the rest to us?"

"Harley…" he said, and I could hear the protest in his voice. I dug deep and went with my last resort.

"Okay, so don't do it for _you_. Do it for _me_. Look—you have no way of knowing this, but my dad's…" I paused, breathing deep and dropping my head, pretending to scratch at my eyebrow so I could get my expression under control. I hated talking about my father. "Basically, he wants nothing to do with me, George. And you know, I was fine with that. _Am_ fine with that. Parents don't exactly want to see their daughter working with what's basically a terrorist organization, I took that as a given. Then I met _you_ , and you never got judgmental on me—no matter what you thought about what I was doing, all I ever got from you was… reassurance."

I lifted my head again and looked at him, even though I was fairly sure my emotions were still painted right across my face. "I've never had that before. From _anyone_. And… I need to know that there's someone like that out there in the world, someone who was that for me. I know it's selfish, but I don't know what I'd do if I lost that."

George looked at the money, looked at me, then looked at the money again before heaving a slow, vocal sigh. Sensing that I had halfway talked him into it, I added a soft "Please."

He met my eyes again. "All right, kid," he said finally. "You're fuckin' twisting my arm, and I don't like the idea of taking off with a bunch of cash and leaving you in the lurch, but… you're set on it, aren't you?"

I smiled, though my eyes felt suddenly hot. "Dead set. It was either this or ask the Joker to fire you, and believe it or not, I'm not super into his methods of letting people go."

He snorted. "No, I guess not." He glanced around for a second, thinking, and then said, "I'll leave town tonight."

I hesitated, then, deciding it was now or never, I gave into an impulse I'd been feeling more or less since the first night I met him, and crossed the room to give him a hug. His arms went around me easily, and I held on to him for a second before whispering, "You're everything a dad should be," kissing him on the cheek, and letting him go.

He turned away almost immediately, and I decided it was a good time to take my leave. I went to the door, and as I turned the knob, he cleared his throat and said, "Look after yourself, kid."

I turned back and looked at him for a moment, memorizing his face, before shooting him a smile. "Goodbye, George."

True to his word, he slipped out completely unnoticed that night.

Three days later, the shit hit the fan.

* * *

Inexplicably to me, the Joker had taken to leaving the cover of our hideout in broad daylight—as if the target painted on his back by Cobblepot wasn't _enough_ , as if he simply couldn't resist inviting the average citizen of Gotham to take their best shot. I told him it was fucking stupid, he told me that if he was interested in my opinion then he'd _ask_ for it, I subsided in a huff, and the Joker did what he wanted to do. As always.

That day, he'd left an hour or two before sunset without even giving me the courtesy of telling me where he'd be (I told him to let me come with him at the _very_ least; he just laughed at me and left me anyway). I commandeered the TV from the henchmen, a move they responded to with halfhearted protests, but since I'd been warmer to the guys as a whole since getting George out safe, I didn't get as much resistance as I might have a few days ago.

I kept an eye on the local news for anything that might be important, muttering a few choice words about the Joker every couple of minutes. Over the course of an hour or two, I'd turned up exactly nothing that I could make relate to the Joker, Penguin, or Batman.

By that point, I was growing restless, so I vaulted off the couch and went out in front of the house. By then, the sun had set. It was early September at that point, and the blue-toned twilights were getting chillier, so I cupped my hands around my upper arms as I approached the group of guys standing out there in the midst of a cloud of smoke. Given that the house was a free-for-all smoking zone, I figured that they were doing some sort of drug—one of the straighter-edged henchmen must have put his foot down and kicked them out front, where it was dark enough and—well, _Gotham_ enough—for them to get away with it.

Ace was among their number, of course, as were his skinhead buddies. His bleary eyes focused on me as I approached, and as I waved away a cloud of particularly chemical-smelling smoke, he drawled out, "Somethin' we can help you with?"

"Yeah," I said, glancing from guy to guy, registering their clouded eyes and trying to gauge just how capable they were of remembering what I was going to ask them to do. After a second, I decided it wasn't exactly rocket science, and with a shrug, I told him, "I was just going to ask you guys to keep an eye out for the boss—you know, since you're out here anyway. Just give me a shout if you see him or get word from him."

"Can do," Ace said, cracking a sideways grin that had me convinced he was high. I saw a thought trudging its way across his eyes, and he turned to his buddies, forgetting me completely: "Hey, you know what we should do? We should get a fire pit."

 _We're not getting a fucking fire pit unless the Joker_ _ **wants**_ _to light a signal beacon to everyone in the neighborhood_ , I thought to myself, but I didn't say anything, figuring it was just a pipe dream that would fade with Ace's buzz, anyway. As the guys murmured in sedate enthusiasm, I turned away to go back inside, but something caught my eye.

There was a black car parked across the street—not running, but the nondescript make and model combined with the tinted windows rang alarm bells. I knew it was probably me being in hyper-alert mode, but, keeping my eyes on it, I reached out and grabbed Ace by the elbow.

" _What_?" he demanded, almost whining in annoyance.

I nodded at the car. "How long's that been there?"

He turned to squint at it, scratching absently at his tattooed collarbone. "Dunno. All afternoon."

"Which one is it?" I demanded.

"What?"

"Is it you 'dunno,' or has it been there all afternoon?"

"It's been there all afternoon! Jesus, Harley, no one knows where we are. Take the hysteria down a couple of notches."

Normally I'd take that as an opportunity to elbow him right in his gut, but I was too preoccupied with scoping out the rest of the street, unconvinced by his drug-addled reassurance that the car had been there for a while now—and even if he was right and it _had_ , that still didn't clear us. Further down the road, near the stop sign at the end of the street, a catering truck was parked—a catering truck with no company name. At the other end of the street were a couple of hoods crossing the rood, hands jammed in their jacket pockets, maybe dangerous, maybe not.

Suddenly convinced that we were overdue for a change in location, I glanced back at the first car to catch my attention in time to see the window moving. Acting on instinct, I jumped forward, plowing straight into Ace's side and taking him to the ground right as the sound of gunfire cracked through the air.

"What the _fuck_?" he roared as we collided hard with the ground.

"Everybody stay down and get inside, _now_ ," I shouted as the group scattered slightly, and fortunately, they heard me and made to obey. I sprang up into a crouch, yanked Ace half upright, and then got a move on, crouching and running to the door. Ace followed behind even as more shots sounded and I heard two rapid thuds as two of the henchman dropped.

I threw the door open, got under cover behind it, and waited till everyone still alive was inside before slamming it shut and dead-bolting it. Ace had gotten grazed on the shoulder and was poking at the bloody spot in bemusement, like his clouded brain hadn't quite caught up to what was happening, and I grabbed his elbow, slapped his hand away from the wound, and towed him into the living room. " _Spider_!" I shouted as several henchmen clustered about in confusion.

Spider had heard the shots and reacted immediately, and he came out of the hallway leading to the armory now, holding a rifle and yanking the bolt back even as his eyes landed on me. "Who is it?"

"Not sure, but it's not cops—not yet," I said, shoving Ace down on the couch and reaching for a battered throw pillow, ripping a strip of fabric from its case. "They woulda sent SWAT instead of firing off shots the second we noticed them. I think it's Cobblepot's people."

"How'd they find us?" he asked, edging to one of the blackened front windows, bashing it to pieces with the stock of his rifle, and peering carefully around the edge. I snorted as I bound up Ace's arm.

"Beats the fuck outta me. What are they doing?"

Even as I asked the question, Spider cursed and ducked as a bullet zinged inside and buried itself in the opposite wall. "Converging," he said dryly, before swooping around and firing a round in response.

I tied off the makeshift bandage and straightened up. By that point, most of the henchman had been to the armory and back, picking up on the fact that this was serious, and they followed Spider's lead, taking cover behind walls and smashing all the formerly-obscured front windows so they had a place to shoot from. I decided they could manage by themselves for a minute, so I darted back to the weapons room.

There, deciding that Spider had the right idea, I grabbed a rifle and slung the strap across my chest, then, figuring I'd need something a little more practical if they managed to advance closer than the street, I took a pistol with the largest capacity magazine I could find as well and loaded it before tucking it into the back of my jeans. A closed stiletto found its way into my boot, and then I rushed back to the front of the house.

The place had turned into a damn firing range by the time I got back to it. I joined Spider, ducking against the opposite side of the window where he was stationed, and took a quick glance outside.

There were more cars—a lot more. They must have been waiting nearby for the action to start. I frowned, ducked back, and looked at Spider. "Any idea where the boss is?"

"No dice," he said with a harsh chuckle.

"Leave it to him to be conveniently somewhere else the one day they bring a firefight to our headquarters," I growled, peeking out and taking a shot at the little shapes poking out over the roofs of the cars they could fire on us. It wasn't long before one of them spotted me and turned his gun on me, and I ducked back, swearing as the wood of the window frame splintered right next to me.

"This ain't gonna last," Spider said.

"Yeah, you're telling me. Someone's bound to have called the cops by now and Cobblepot's people have the advantage; they wait till the sirens get close then bail, leaving us still stuck in this place and surrounded by the cops." I shot him a sideways glance. "We have to get out of here."

"Yeah, well, behind us is the harbor and in front of us is a whole damn blockade. You got any ideas?"

Just then, unexpectedly, an explosion roared out, shaking the floorboards beneath our feet. For one panicked second, I thought it was something our enemies had managed to get into the house, but soon, I realized that the building was untouched, and, frowning, Spider and I both glanced around the windowsill to see—one of Penguin's cars sprawled upside-down and across the street, on fire. The location rang a bell in my mind, and Spider and I shot side glances at each other at the same exact time, the same thought going through each of our heads: _the ticking grenade_. Of all the times for it to decide to finally go off…

It gave me an idea. "How many grenades do we have back there?" I shouted, but before he could answer me, I was already running back to the armory, where I practically tore the shelves apart looking. I found five more scattered about the room and then returned to the front lines. "All right, who's got a good pitching arm?"

Several guys broke away from the windows, and while the others held the line of defense, I started forking over grenades. "Aim for the cars," I instructed them. "You damage them, you damage both their cover and their escape route. As soon as the smoke starts going up and enough damage is done, I want _all_ of you to scatter, because the cops are showing up at any fucking minute and we do NOT want to be there when that happens, got it?"

Fortunately, none of them seemed eager to puff their chests out and argue with me—we had a much better chance pulling this thing off if we worked as a group against our attackers than if it was every man for himself, and fortunately, it seemed as though everyone knew that. I handed out all but one of the explosives, then returned to my post near Spider and passed him the last one. "Make it count," I said.

"Yes, ma'am," he muttered, setting down his rifle and peering out the window briefly.

For a moment, the gunfire from both sides was the only sound. Then the grenades started to burst, shaking the house and tearing up the roads, sending up smoke and shrapnel. About half of them, including Spider's, hit their marks. Wisely, the guys were aiming towards the blockade of cars that cut off our access to the lot where our cars were parked, because although that left Penguin's cars on either end of the blockade untouched, it meant we could potentially get to the cars and escape now.

"Okay!" I roared over the firing guns, judging that the smokescreen kicked up by the multiple explosions provided the best chance we'd get. "We need to move! Everyone to the cars, _now_ , and stay as covered as you possibly can!"

They didn't need to be told twice. They started breaking away from the windows two at a time—the first one out threw the door open and left it that way, and in sputters, the remaining ones bolted out, heads down, making their erratic way towards the cars.

I covered them as best I could with my rifle, waited till all but Spider had left the house, then I glanced at him, gesturing with my head. "Go!"

He grabbed me by the arm and growled, "I'll be fucked if I let you get stranded," and yanked me so hard away from the window and towards the door that it was a miracle he didn't dislocate my shoulder.

"Ow! Damn it, Spider, I'm _coming_!" I insisted, dropping my rifle and scurrying along with him, but he didn't let me go, hunching and running in a zigzag towards the car lot. I let him lead me, trusting him to guide my footsteps so that I could use my eyes to scope out our surroundings and the potential threats therein.

We'd definitely done a number on the block. Several of Penguin's cars were on fire, if not completely overturned, and there were bodies (and charred body parts) scattered around _everywhere_. He'd sent a veritable army to attack us (which was probably smart, given that anyone with a brain would guess that the Joker's hideout was closer to a fortress). As a result, there were still a number of undamaged cars shielding our enemies towards the end of the line, further away from the lot we were headed towards. It was looking at the closest of these that I realized we were _far_ from safe, and as I saw the gleam of fire reflected off a shining barrel, I blurted "Fuck!" and launched myself at Spider.

I got him down in time, though I heard the bullets whiz overhead and knew that our luck was going to run out, and fast. I rolled off of him, springing up into a crouch, and I shouted, " _Go_!" at him even as I spotted a stray brick on the ground and snatched it up. As Spider rolled fast to his feet and bolted, I got the most immediate shooter in my sights, narrowed my eyes, and winged the brick right at him.

It smashed into his face with a satisfying crunching sound, and the gun dropped to the roof of the car with a clatter. "Bring a car around!" I yelled at Spider's retreating back, then saw more gun barrels turning in my direction at the sound of my voice and found it wise to duck and roll sideways as more shots cracked off in my direction.

As I tumbled to the side, I reached around behind me and snatched my pistol out of my jeans, rolling up onto a knee. The adrenaline ensured that I got oriented in a split second, and, arms stretched out straight and pistol clasped securely in both hands, I started firing at the heads that protruded slightly above the roofs of the cars.

I got off about eight shots (and I couldn't tell you which ones hit their targets, if any of them) before the sound of heavy, rapid footfalls alerted me to the fact that danger was approaching from other fronts. I whipped around in the direction the sound was coming from and squeezed off one bullet towards the big, black shape bearing down on me. I heard a growl, thought that meant I hit him, but he kept coming, and before I could so much as pull the trigger again, a thick boot collided hard with my hands, knocking my off-balance and sending the gun flying.

I twisted immediately to look for the misplaced gun, but as my attacker landed, he followed up with a heavy fist to the jaw. I hadn't been hit that hard in some time, and right away, I found myself flat on my back on the ground.

Even as I tried to shake off the sudden dizziness and struggle upright to fight back, the guy shoved a knee into my stomach and followed up, hitting me twice more, just as hard. By that point, I was well and truly fucked—I couldn't make my vision straighten out, and I felt blood welling up from the lacerated insides of my mouth, coating my teeth, several of which felt rather loose. The knee withdrew from my stomach, and I thought, _well, fuck, I'm dead, but hey, I had a good run._

Instead of the expected bullet to the brain, though, a hand seized my bruised jaw. I smelled something sharp and chemical, and by the time I realized it was some kind of inhalant that I would be _far_ better off not breathing in, it was too late—it was already in my lungs and coursing through my bloodstream. The hand let go of my face, and my last thought as my head dropped back against the hard ground was: _at least the Joker is safe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone surprised the Joker wasn't around when the battle came to his door? What a scrub.
> 
> I know it's a short chapter after all that wait, but maybe the fluffy George shit makes up for it a little bit? Come on, I modeled him after Mike from BrBa, was there any possible way I was going to actually let him get killed? I'm not looking to traumatize myself!
> 
> This chapter was mostly build-up/scene setting. Next one is pretty damn eventful, feat. pissed-off Penguin, some familiar faces, and a considerably less cliffhanger-y ending. Also J might get around to rolling his ass over to where the action is, though we wouldn't want to _rush_ his Majesty. We're in the home stretch, y'all. Feedback is love and soul food.


	21. you burnt my house down then got mad at my reaction

_you built a house of cards_  
_and got shocked when you saw them fall_  
_well I ain't saying I'm innocent, in fact the reverse,_  
_but if you're heading to the grave,_  
_you don't blame the hearse._

 **-The White Stripes,** _**Effect and Cause ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4pqpup4xjc))** _

I jerked awake, some underlying sense of danger driving me back to consciousness as soon as the chemicals released their grip on me.

I felt like I'd been hit by a train. The light was glaring, and I slanted my eyes against it as I tried to figure out exactly what was going on and where I was. Whatever I'd been drugged with was slow to let go; I knew what I was seeing, but the significance of the sight was somewhat lost on me to start with.

White walls and bright lights. A dark shape, humanoid, standing over by a greyish doorway. I was vastly uncomfortable, and before long, I realized that that was because my arms were stretched out over my head, held by… something. I glanced up to see shackles, clasped around my wrists and strung up to the ceiling, where they were chained securely.

_Penguin's basement._

With the realization, the haze of the drugs faded somewhat—or maybe it was the fading drugs that allowed me to make that realization in the first place. In their wake, they left a vague, spinny feeling, like I was waking up still drunk after a night of partying (and decidedly less happy about it than the night before). I shook my head, trying to get rid of the sensation, and regretted it immediately when a heavy, powerful throbbing started immediately up in my temples.

" _Ffffffffuuuuuuuuck_ ," I hissed.

The humanoid shape by the door shifted and my eyes darted to it. I recognized him. Squinting at him first to confirm that my memory was right, I asked, "Matthew?"

My escort from that night the Penguin'd had me abducted from the street looked me in the eye for a split second before glancing away again abruptly. I narrowed my eyes, and as my vision stabilized further, I glanced him over, seeing the dirt, gravel, and smoke smudges on his skin and street clothes. A suspicion hit me, and I looked at his hands. The knuckles there were bloodied and scabbed over, and I looked back up at his face. "Were you the one who beat the shit out of me?"

He hissed out a scoff between his teeth. I raised my eyebrows, taking the sound as confirmation, but decided it wasn't the appropriate time to press the issue. Instead, I took stock of myself and my possessions, and found—much to my annoyance—that all of my weapons had been stripped with me, up to and including the stiletto that was in my boots. Well. _Had_ been in my boots. They'd taken those as well and shackled my feet together and to the floor, so kicking the shit out of a deserving little fowl was out, it seemed. I had nothing but my ripped black jeans and the red tank I'd been wearing when they first started firing on us, and there wasn't any way I could turn _those_ into a weapon, not trussed-up the way I was.

As I glanced around the room for anything I could use to my advantage, the door swung open and the Penguin came in, dressed in the usual black and white tux, swinging an umbrella like a walking stick. He ignored me for the time being, looking straight at Matthew. "All calm on this front?"

"All calm," Matthew confirmed softly, then glanced past his boss at me. "She woke up a minute ago."

The Penguin looked at me then, as if he hadn't even noticed that I was strung up in the middle of the room. For a second, he just stared guilelessly at me, then suddenly his eyes narrowed and he was moving towards me— _waddling_ , I couldn't help but think a little viciously.

"Do you have _any_ idea the trouble your incompetence has caused me?" he quacked, jabbing at me with the tip of his umbrella. I dodged it as best I can, but it still caught me painfully in the ribs.

"Ow! Fuck! Mind the goods, will you?" I asked, the hung over feeling combined with all the bruises and battery I'd suffered from the fight leading _up_ to the drugging making me a tad irritable. (That wasn't even taking into account the fact that I was currently chained up in this guy's sick torture dungeon. I decided to ignore that point for the time being.)

The Penguin leaned in, little blotches of red burning away beneath the thin, pale skin on his cheeks, his beady eyes narrowed into a glare. "You were supposed to make him cooperate," he hissed at me accusingly. "I don't know how much _clearer_ I could _make_ it."

"Yeah, well, this might come as some surprise to you, but the Joker kind of marches to his own drummer," I said, annoyed, twisting my wrists in the shackles to see if there was any give. There wasn't. "Believe me, I'd have been perfectly happy to go along with your whole scheme, buddy. That means a regular paycheck to keep the henchdudes happy, some backup against law enforcement—and best of all, I wouldn't be chained up in your freaky Girl-With-the-Dragon-Tattoo basement right now."

That was met with just a second of confused silence, and I shook my head. Apparently, our henchmen were the only ones I could rely on to have watched enough television to be worth dropping pop culture references around. The Penguin, having decided the comment was irrelevant, leaned back, pacing for a moment in an agitated loop before coming back at me again: "Why didn't he listen to you? I _saw_ the two of you that day; he takes your opinions into account."

I couldn't help lifting an eyebrow for a split second before blanking my expression. Apparently, Ozzie hadn't yet caught on to the fact that he'd been had, that I wasn't exactly reigning queen of the clowns—at least, not in the sense that I had any real authority, not over the Joker—and _I_ certainly wasn't going to tell him. If I was still alive, if the knives hadn't come out yet, then it was because he was betting on me being valuable enough to the Joker to be a useful bargaining chip. It was hardly in my best interests to smash those assumptions. Instead, I said, "A better question would probably be how the _hell_ did you find us?"

He shot a sharp glance at me then shook his head abruptly. "Well," he said, pointedly ignoring the question, "I didn't _want_ it to come to this, but you haven't exactly left me a choice, have you? If he doesn't want your organs mailed to him piece by piece, he'll have to cooperate."

 _Actually, receiving my spleen in a package on his doorstep would probably make J's day_ , I thought, but again, I thought it prudent to keep such thoughts to myself. Instead, I watched Oswald as he paced, and dryly, I said, "Oh no. Please. Don't." It struck me that I was feeling and acting awfully cavalier about being in the same position Davis Steele had been in right before getting gutted, but as with most hangovers, it seemed with _chemical_ hangovers came with the imprudent attitude of _I already feel so fucking shitty I might as_ _ **well**_ _say what I want because there isn't much that could make it worse._ That reminded me… "What did Mongo over there hit me with, anyway? I feel like I did, like, twelve shots of tequila last night."

The Penguin wasn't even looking at me anymore. He was muttering to himself, little harried sounds that I couldn't make out, and I rolled my head back in irritation. "Hey, Ozzie, as soon as you're done freaking out—you think I could move upstairs, or are you really going to insist on keeping me in the creepy torture chamber? My shoulders are killing."

He whipped around on me unexpectedly, barreling towards me so fast that I flinched back instinctively. " _You_ are being _extraordinarily_ rude!" he hissed in my face, little flecks of spit flying from his mouth and hitting my skin. If I'd had my hands free, I'd have pointedly wiped my face off, but as it was I had to just give him a look that I hoped conveyed my feelings.

He seemed to get _unafraid and unimpressed_ from that look, because he drew back slowly, looking me over with a distinct air of bafflement. "What do people see in you?" he asked, and although he'd spoken the question out loud, I got the distinct sense that he was talking to himself. That was all right with me; I didn't really have a _real_ answer for him (the only response I could think of was _well I'm all beat to shit right now but I promise I actually clean up pretty nice_ ), and with him close enough to get mad and spray his words all over me again, I didn't want to risk saying something snippy again just yet. I just stared him down, _he_ stared _me_ down, and at length, he shook his head.

"I just don't understand. Why would he settle on such an unimposing little thing? If he simply wanted to fuck someone, there are prostitutes all over the city—and if that isn't his style, I'm certain he could have his pick of his victims."

"Nice," I said, rolling my eyes to the side, but he was in reverie mode, seeing me but not seeing me, _definitely_ not hearing me at this point.

At length, he rallied himself and stood back, and I saw from the look in his eyes that he was winding up to say something nasty. _Okay, Ozzie, lay it on me_ , I thought, and the challenging look in my eyes must have been the last straw, because he drew himself up and sniffed in that pretentious accent, "I hardly know what goes on in the mind of an animal like the Joker. Maybe he likes to share. Maybe you're the only groupie he could find who was willing to be passed from henchman to henchman."

I groaned out loud. Out of all the gossip that had been written about me since my emergence as the Joker's partner, _that_ was the bit he'd chosen to go with? "Oswald, _real_ gentlemen don't read tabloids," I said firmly, refocusing my gaze on him and frowning disapprovingly. "They _definitely_ aren't crass enough to speculate about the details of one's sex life, at least not out _loud_. And here I really _did_ think you were a gentleman."

"You wouldn't know the first thing about gentility, you smart-mouthed little hussy," he spat—unfortunately, literally once again. I was a bit distracted by the fact that he'd actually called me a hussy.

_Where's Pam? She'd either get a kick out of this or, you know, kill him._

"Since we're on the topic of rumors about the more—ahem—colorful members of Gotham's underworld," I said anyway, deciding that if he was being an asshole then I was damn well going to antagonize him; he probably wouldn't hurt me too badly until it became obvious that the Joker didn't intend to respond to his threats—"I'd rather the papers write that I'm a big huge slut than that… what is it? Oh, yeah—that I've got webbed fingers and live on a diet of raw fish."

He recoiled as if I'd hit him, and, pleased to have found a weak spot, I went on, making sure that my tone was nothing but pleasant even as I invented lies: "You know, I've met no less than _three_ people who think you're paying the best plastic surgeons in the world to slowly transform you into an actual humanoid penguin? Like those people who show up on Ripley's believe it or not who think they're meant to morph into a tiger or some shit." I gave him a sympathetic wince. "Not really the reputation you want to cultivate when you're in the process of taking over Gotham's underworld."

He looked almost horrified for a moment, clearly unused to such blunt talk, and I reflected that he was paying the price for such respectful, well-behaved help—when no one ever told you what people were saying behind your back, it came as a big shock when you ultimately found out. For a moment, I found myself thankful for the way Ace used to scold and swear at me for what the tabloids were reporting about my sexual practices, as if I had _anything_ to do with it—I'd built up quite the shell; Penguin's words had done nothing.

Quickly enough, though, Cobblepot recovered, seeming to remember that he was most certainly the one in charge of the situation. He leaned towards me, jabbing me with the umbrella again (a move that _did_ piss me off; you don't know true annoyance until a short pretentious birdman is poking you with the tip of a damn umbrella), and said, "We'll see what people think about my _reputation_ once I bring your lover's operation to its knees. What do you think, Matthew?" he asked, speaking over his shoulder. "Think I should open with a hand? That ought to get his attention."

He chuckled at his own idea, and as I mentally reviewed the very real possibility that I would be severely mutilated before the night was over, I decided it was time to face facts, whether or not I spoke those facts out loud to the Penguin. The cold truth was that it was _more_ than unlikely that the Joker would put himself and his goals at risk just to save me. I doubted he would even invade the Iceberg in an effort to get me back, not with our hideout and supplies half-decimated and certainly crawling with police by now. I knew this, even if Oswald didn't, and I was glad for it—I didn't want him putting himself at risk over me, especially since I'd been careless enough to get caught despite his clear warning to me the other night.

However—and maybe it was the residual buzz from whatever they'd used to knock me out—I found that my attitude towards my current situation was far from fatalistic. After a bit of soul-searching, I realized it was something Ozzie had just said: _What is it that people see in you?_ The thought actually sparked a bit of an epiphany, and it must have showed on my face, because, sounding as if I was doing it to personally offend him, Oswald howled, "And just _what_ are you grinning at, madam?!"

I found that he was right. I was smiling, and since it was already out there, I didn't bother to wipe it off as I looked directly up at him and said, "It's something you said. It actually made me realize that… I've been suffering from some psychological issues ever since I got sent to Arkham a few months ago."

"What?" he demanded, sounding confused and pissed off.

"Issues. Psychological. Specifically related to abandonment. See, Ozzie," I said, shifting from one foot to the other and rolling my shoulders forward to see if I could relieve the ache in them from being stuck in the same position for too long, "due to reasons we won't get into right now, I've been… kind of a prickly little ball for the last month or so, snapping at anyone who comes too close, trying to be as self-reliant as possible… you know, the usual human response to feeling betrayed and left behind. Only now I realize it was totally unnecessary. You see, there are people who love me. Several of them are pretty scary. And I'm not even talking about the Joker—who, by the way, you might want to check with before you go through all the trouble of mutilating me. I'm talking about _other_ people, Ozzie. People who can cause trouble for you. In fact, I'm almost glad you took me tonight, because I _really_ want to see what's going to happen."

Oswald looked just a bit uncertain, but mostly unconvinced. He brought his umbrella up, touched his temple with it in a rather sarcastic saluting motion, and said, "Well, we'll see. Won't we?"

That apparently signaled the end of our conversation. He turned around, told Matthew sharply to "Keep an eye on her; I have to get ready for our opening," then waddled out of the room.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, I'd decided that I needed to _do_ something.

Sure, I'd told Ozzie that I was looking forward to waiting around to see what the repercussions of his abduction of me were. I'd meant it at the time, but a girl was allowed to change her mind, and I was finding out that there were few motivators quite as powerful as having one's arms chained up over one's head, plagued by that awful numb feeling that happened when all the blood drained out of a limb.

Of course, the only way I was getting out of this situation was if someone with a key came along and released me. And right now, the only key set that I could see was hanging from Matthew's belt.

_Matthew it is._

Calling upon the months of acting practice one gets when one works with the Joker (and is sometimes planted in an unsuspecting crowd in order to steer them exactly where they need to go), I softened my face and eyes and started to stare at him. At first, he was quite clearly trying to pretend like he hadn't noticed, though if he had any sort of peripheral vision whatsoever, he knew that I'd been watching him for the last five minutes.

Then came the glances that I'd call nervous if he wasn't so clearly annoyed. Finally, after the third or fourth sideways look at me to see if I was still staring (I was; I hadn't let up for a second), he focused his eyes straight ahead and said, " _What_?"

I gave him a knowing look. "You _were_ the one who hit me, weren't you?"

"Shut the fuck up," he growled, and I was actually glad to hear it. He seemed more than a little bit pissed off with me, maybe pissed off that he'd been relegated to guard duty instead of something more exciting, and it was all too easy to channel resentment and agitation into sexual tension instead.

"If you want me to shut up, you can drug me again," I said, daring him, fairly certain that he wasn't cleared to do that, and the irritated look he shot me combined with his continued inaction made me a bit more confident. "I just want to know who's got the right hook that knocked me flat."

He hitched his shoulders and spoke in a tone of flat annoyance, avoiding looking at me. "You were fuckin' gunning down all of the shooters—who weren't even trying to _kill_ you, by the way; we were under orders to keep you alive. What else was I supposed to do? I had to neutralize you."

"Oh, I didn't say it was a _bad_ thing," I assured him immediately. "In fact—well, you know, things are pretty survival-of-the-fittest in the Joker's outfit. Believe me, I respect it."

He looked at me then, albeit briefly, and asked warily, "What are you doing?"

I shrugged, trotting out every last inch of innocent blonde ingénue I still had in me as I said, "Nothing. I just appreciate a man who can throw a good punch, that's all."

He faced front again, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge the compliment (which admittedly had weird—if specifically-invoked—connotations, coming from me). I let it lie for a few minutes, then I sighed.

He looked at me again. "What?" he demanded irately.

I looked directly at him and, in a distinctly challenging tone, I said, "You're fucking _boring_ , Matthew."

I saw the flash of anger cross his face before he pulled it back and narrowed his eyes suspiciously at me instead. "What the fuck are you trying to do?"

"Tell you that you're boring," I said, tilting my chin down and rolling my eyes up to stare at him challengingly.

He scoffed, a rewarding little sound of anger at being spoken to that way, and then, shifting from one foot to the other, he said, "Well, I'm sorry, but it's not my job to entertain you."

"Oh, no, it's not _me_ ," I assured him. "Don't tell me _you're_ not bored out of your skull right now, too." He started to protest and I looked at him sharply and exclaimed "Ah! Tell the _truth_. You're boring your _self_."

He shut his mouth and faced front again, but I could see the slightest hint of pink rising in his cheeks. He was getting pissed off. _Good_. I sighed quietly again and said, "Not the slightest hint of backbone to you, and let me tell you, that's a fucking shame. I hate to see guys who can throw a punch like that who are nonetheless… _so_ out of place in this line of work. You're absolutely toothless, Matt. Show some balls, you know? Be creative for once in your life, don't just stand there boring me and boring _yourself_."

He knew I was up to something, but I could see the exact moment when he decided he didn't care. _Gotta love the malleability of testosterone_. He turned abruptly towards me, jaw held tight, and started striding towards me. I turned in his direction attentively as he muttered, "You wanna see creativity, bitch? I'll _show_ you some creativity."

He grabbed me around the waist; I pressed into him immediately, ignoring the stir of repulsion I felt as one of his hands slipped into my shirt and thinking _only get the job done, get the job done, get the job done._ I looked up at him scornfully and demanded, "Yeah? What exactly did you have in mind?"

He paused for a second as he realized that my ankles were chained tightly together and that my legs weren't exactly in a position to open up, willingly or unwillingly. Fortunately, the anger and the hormones were raging so heavily at this point that he figured he could handle anything, and so he let me go, jerked the keys from his belt, and knelt to unlock the shackle bolting my ankles to the floor.

I moved immediately, pushing hard off the floor and wrapping my thighs around his head. He reacted right away, jerking back and then, when that failed to break him three, pushing his way to his feet, but I just tightened my thighs, gritted my teeth, gave thanks both that I'd been making a priority out of working out lately and that my thighs were the strongest part of my body, and I started twisting.

It took me a couple of wayward wrenches until I finally was able to brace my feet against his back as he lurched around then, with that extra leverage, I clenched my thighs, pressed against his back, and twisted my hips violently sideways. With that move, I felt a satisfying crack between my legs, and he went slack. I let go of him and he went crashing to the floor.

My arms were _really_ killing me now. I took a second to catch my breath, then moved forward with phase two: somehow getting hold of the keys.

They'd fallen a foot or two away from where I was chained up, and I didn't have much slack coming from my wrist shackles. Still, I thought I might be able to reach out with my feet and hook them with my toes. From there, sleepy arms or not, moving them from foot-to-mouth then from mouth-to-hand would be pretty easy for a gymnast.

Of course, the second I started stretching out to try to get hold of them, the door flew open again. I froze, wondering exactly how Penguin would react to the fact that I'd killed the hired help—

—then something metallic clattered into the room, I heard a hissing sound, then there was a dull thud and the room filled with smoke.

 _Not smoke_ , I realized, feeling a surge of dread as I realized that I definitely recognized that smell. _Gas_.

The flashes came immediately—dead Joker, decayed Joker, lips rotting away from his teeth, maggots writhing all over the decomposing flesh of his face—

—then I was breathing normal air again, sharply, and I was on the ground, my arms tingling like crazy as the blood rushed back into them. I blinked away the unsettling images I'd just seen, then realized I was staring directly up into a very familiar face.

I lashed out immediately, catching him in the shoulder, and I growled, " _Damn_ it, Jonathan, quit fucking _gassing_ me!"

He hunched back, looking wounded. "I wasn't to know you'd already eliminated the threat in the room—and anyway, I always bring you back, don't I?"

" _Fuck_ you."

"See?" he said to someone over his shoulder. "I _told_ you she was fine."

Another familiar face appeared in my line of vision, and I didn't think I'd ever been gladder to see my best friend. "Yes, well, forgive _me_ for not having the utmost confidence in you, what with the way you sling that toxin around," Pam growled, stooping beside me and taking my arm, easing me up into a sitting position. "Honestly, Jonathan, how much poison do you _need_?"

"Keep talking, Pamela, and you'll probably find out," Jonathan said archly, rising to his feet.

Pam let out a derisive hiss of laughter and bolted to her feet as well, facing off against him over the top of my head. "If that's a threat, Jonathan, then you are absolutely _welcome_ to try following through on it. I'm loaded with enough antitoxin that if your little fear gas has any effect at all, it'll be hardly more potent than a _party drug_ to me."

"Harridan," he muttered, adjusting the mechanism in his sleeve like he was seriously considering using it again.

"Peacock," she spat, completely without fear, as was like her.

 _Marrieds_ , I thought, but given that Crane still had plenty of fear gas and Pam looked like she was ready to punch someone, I thought it prudent to keep that thought to myself. Instead, after taking perhaps undue pleasure in the sight of them glaring at each other (Crane's hair was all rumpled from the mask and his glasses were missing; Pam looked poised and perfect as always and was about an inch taller than he was and I thought I could hardly be blamed for thinking they looked… well, both striking and adorable, standing next to each other like that), I said, "I am absolutely _thrilled_ to see you both, and… kind of _surprised_ to see you, Jonathan. So do you think you could maybe fill me in on what the _hell_ is going on?"

It took them a second to tear their annoyed gazes away from each other, but at length, they managed, staring down at me instead—I hadn't bothered to get to my feet, figuring I should take a minute to recover from my second poisoning in probably less than six hours. Pam glanced back at Crane, huffed dismissively, and stooped back down next to me. "Eddie got in touch."

My eyebrows shot up. "Eddie?"

"Yes, _Eddie_ ," she said, pronouncing his name with marked distaste. "He said something had gone down between you and this… Cobblepot fellow. Said he was staying out of it, but as a gesture of good faith, he was letting me know about it. I figured it was high time I met the man who has apparently been giving you so much trouble of late, so—" she shrugged modestly. "Here I am."

"Uh… huh," I said, still totally confused. When I'd told Oswald there were people who liked me, I hadn't thought of _Eddie_ as one of them—though to be fair, it was probably more that he liked _Pam_ , despite her protests to the contrary. Book-smart people tended to gravitate towards each other like that. Speaking of book smarts… "And… Jonathan?"

He'd wandered across the room to the little box where Cobblepot kept his torture implements and was trying to get it open, and he seemed a bit surprised to find me looking at him for answer. He let go of the box, put his back to it, and said, "Ahh… well, I figured I owed you some consideration after our recent stint in Arkham and your, uh, contribution to my escape there."

 _Okay, first of all, that contribution wasn't willing_ , I thought immediately, but it seemed a rather petty thing to bring up given that he was apparently busting me out of this joint. Instead, playfully, I said, "What are you, a Lannister?"

When I got nothing but a blank stare in return, I was admittedly a little miffed. "Am I the _only_ one in the Gotham underworld who watches television _ever_?"

"Probably," Pam said briskly, doing that older sister thing where she showed no concern whatsoever for my feelings, and she took my hands and drew me to my feet. "At any rate, he's blowing smoke up your ass. He and I happened to be meeting for dinner, and I made him come along so he could back me up."

" _Made_ , nothing," Crane objected immediately.

" _Dinner_?" I demanded, clinging tightly to Pam.

"I'll have you know I came along of my own free will!"

"Since when do you two do _dinner_?"

"And admittedly it wasn't to free Harley so much as to see what kind of looting could be done at a place like this and perhaps find a few more test subjects, but given that the end result was the same, I don't think anyone can complain."

"Jonathan, _shut up_ ," Pam and I said simultaneously, but before I could start grilling her again, she fixed me with a rather severe look that stopped me in my tracks. "Sorry to crush your romantic heart, Harley: we were just comparing notes."

 _Yeah, notes on_ _ **fucking**_ , I thought, and it was only when I heard a short burst of scornful laughter from Jonathan and saw the disdainful look on Pam's face that I realized I'd said it out loud. "Oh, shit, sorry! It's the drugs," I said immediately. "I've been drugged _twice_ tonight. My filter's broken, I think."

Pam rolled her eyes and said, "And moving right along—we need to go. Part of the reason we were able to get down here so easily is that quite a commotion started kicking up upstairs right as we arrived."

"Yes—it seems that deranged clown you call a lover showed up right before _we_ did," Crane added, and when Pam shot him a truly venomous look, he stopped short and said, "What? You didn't want her to know?"

"Probably not," I said, having grown tense at the very mention of the Joker. "She wanted me to leave with the two of you, but that's not happening now that I know he's here. Penguin's guys are scary as hell; I have to go help."

"Help using _what_?" Pam asked, shooting Crane another glare even as she took hold of my shoulders. "Your fists of steel? Your beaten-to-hell face? Let him take care of it, Harley; you need to get somewhere safe."

"Yeah, that's not going to work," I told her flatly, breaking away. "He's here; I'm going to go help him."

"I've no objection to that," Crane said, blandly ignoring the third look if its kind that Pam shot towards him, "but I'd advise you to hurry. Murmurs among Penguin's employees would have me believe that Batman arrived on the scene a moment or two before we came in here to find that you'd handled your posted guard quite capably on your own."

I froze at the mention of Batman, then looked a bit frantically between the two of them. "If that's true, then the two of you need to get out. _Now_. Jonathan, he knows you and he'll send you right back to Arkham, and Pam, the _last_ thing you need is to be on Batman's radar. Fuck!" I should have predicted that Batman would come along and jam the gears. I let loose an angry growl and stalked towards the door, shooting a few last words over my shoulder: "Thanks for the jail break. Now both of you, scram. I _mean_ it." With that, I ducked out of the basement and ran upstairs.

Of course, I immediately rather wished I hadn't. The Iceberg was an absolute war zone at this point, and although I admit it gratified me a little to see Oswald Cobblepot's prized little kingdom tumbling down around my head, the strains of the night were starting to take a toll on me, and the apparently ongoing battle between our clowns and Cobblepot's people just looked _exhausting_ to me at this point.

Fortunately, I spotted a dude in a clown mask shortly after I surfaced in the hallway, firing down the hall at where a couple of suited Cobblepot cronies were taking cover behind the doorframe. I reached around the corner, grabbed him by his gun arm, and said, "Don't fucking _shoot_ " as I pulled him around to me; he checked himself the second he saw me and pulled up his mask. I vaguely recognized him—he was a guy Spider hung out with a lot.

"Glad to see you alive," he said matter-of-factly, checking around the corner before apparently deciding we were safe for now. "Some of the guys thought you were done for and this was a suicide mission."

"Yeah, it might _still_ be a suicide mission, but thank you," I growled, rubbing gingerly at my bruised jaw. "Where's the boss?"

He pointed behind me, further down the hallway. "He said somethin' about meeting Cobblepot on his own turf, whatever the fuck _that_ means."

"Ahhh… probably his office," I sighed. "Okay, fine—I'm going to go see what the hell is up with them. You and the guys keep Cobblepot's backup from getting there, will you?"

"Already on it," he said, pulling down his mask. As an afterthought, almost, he added, "You should keep an eye out, Harley. People say the Batman's in the building."

"That's what I hear," I said wryly. He nodded once at me before ducking back around the corner. I shook my head, thought silently that I wouldn't trade _ten_ of Cobblepot's creepy minions for _one_ of ours, and went hunting.

I knew the Joker well enough to be moderately certain he would want to take Penguin out in the sanctity of his own beloved Iceberg office, and so when I reached the office, I wasn't really surprised to find the door barricaded. I wedged my shoulder against it and shoved, and whatever was blocking it slid a few inches—I pushed again, opening a crack wide enough for me to wriggle through, and I slipped inside.

The scene that awaited me was at once totally unexpected and completely unsurprising.

Cobblepot was sitting in a heap in a corner, bleeding copiously from his gut. He seemed like he'd just regained consciousness after a brief blackout, judging by the way his eyes were rather dizzily rolling around.

Batman had at some point gotten into the room despite the fact that the barricade hadn't been dislodged at all, and I realized after a moment that a door I'd taken to be a closet the first time I'd visited this office actually led to another passageway. _Leave it to Oswald Cobblepot to have creepy passageways lining his club._ He'd apparently surprised the Joker mid-Cobblepot-beatdown, and they were currently duking it out, ignoring literally everything but each other as they traded punches—well, as Batman took swings and the Joker dodged and jabbed at the spots between his armor plates with his favorite knife, the Joker playing it safe (probably due to his inhibiting gunshot wound) in the face of Batman's unbridled aggression and ensuring that for both of them, actual contact was limited.

As I tried to figure out exactly what to do to help J, a motion from the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned to find that Cobblepot was heaving himself upward, one hand pressed to his protruding belly, trying to staunch the blood flow there even as he struggled across the room. I followed his trajectory with my eyes and saw immediately where he was headed—that old shotgun mounted over the fireplace.

Everything clicked into place. I bolted across the room and, with my running start, leaped into the air to aim a flying kick right to Ozzie's injured gut—and I got the gratifying sight of his eyes just as he caught sight of me and realized exactly what I was doing before I made contact and knocked him on his ass on the floor. He let loose a strangled howl, sounding _most_ undignified, and I figured that if his pain threshold was low enough to keep him from moving faster than he had been with that measly little stab wound to the belly, then it would definitely keep him down there on the floor for another minute at least.

I turned, perched on tiptoe, lifted the gun from where it was mounted, and cocked it.

Just in time, it seemed—the Joker had finally run out of space, either tripped or fallen backwards, and Batman was hunched over him, one fist clenching his vest to hold him in place, the other fist battering him across the face over and over again. He might have seen me when I entered, he might not have, but it was clear that right now, his priority was eliminating the Joker as a threat. _His mistake_.

Seeing red, I aimed the gun at Batman's armored back and pulled the trigger.

Ancient or not, that thing packed a punch, and it kicked so hard it nearly knocked me down. When the smoke cleared, I saw that it had done _something_ —I saw the shot pellets wedged into Batman's armor, and though none of them seemed to have penetrated, the blast had definitely flattened him, like a giant fist cracking down across his back.

The Joker was currently in the process of wriggling out from under him, and I caught his mutinous murmur: "Batman, more like _Fat_ man, what did you _eat_ today—?"

" _Right_?" I demanded, dropping the gun and dusting off my jeans. "Is there a weight class requirement for the position of Defender of the Night or _what_?"

He finally struggled free and climbed to his feet. He paused, glanced down at Batman, and tilted his head appraisingly. When Batman didn't move, his lips drew back from his teeth and he released a hissing giggle. "How's _that_ for havin' a blast, huh?" he asked, nudging him good-naturedly in the side with his shoe.

Batman stirred slightly and groaned, but then fell still again, and the Joker apparently decided he was bored, because he glanced at me and at the shotgun I'd dropped to my feet, and then opened his arms. " _Harley_ ," he crooned invitingly.

I vaulted across the room and into his arms. For a second, I did nothing but hold onto him as tight as I possibly could, not quite believing that he'd come for me, not quite believing that he was here and I was here and we were both _alive_. I squeezed him until I heard him release a rather pained grunt, then I realized that although he wasn't complaining, he'd probably suffered quite a few rib shots from Batman and that my affection was almost certainly putting him in great pain. I let him go immediately, and he took the opportunity to clasp my chin and tilt my face up so he could get a look at it. I must have looked pretty bad, because he cracked a grin. "Nice shiner," he commented.

I looked him over as well, and pointed to his busted lip, which had leaked bright blood all over his painted chin. "You better not have gotten that from, like, a rage makeout session with Batman, or I'm gonna be _pissed_."

He let loose a bark of laughter and stepped away from me, hands in his pockets, strolling with a certain air of unconcerned aimlessness towards Penguin. I turned to watch.

Oswald had managed to struggle upright again and was sitting against the wall, his belly heaving as he tried to catch his breath against the pain. When he glanced up and saw the Joker approaching, his face almost crumpled—not like he was going to cry, exactly; more like he was infuriated with the way things had turned out. In my opinion, he had no one to blame but himself.

At least, that's what I thought until he hissed, "I never should have listened to that _blasted_ hacker."

The Joker paused mid-stride. My eyes widened and I hastened across the room to stand one pace behind the Joker, one to the right, eyes locked on Oswald, and slowly, J stooped down, putting himself at eye level with the Penguin. "Ah. _What_ hacker, Ozzie?"

Oswald was nothing if not an opportunist. He smelled possibility, realized that something had changed and that he might _not_ be about to die, and so, obligingly, if a little roughly as a result of the pain, he said, "The… hacker; that _Eddie_ person. He was the one who advised me to work with the two of you psychopaths to begin with."

The Joker turned his head slightly and glanced sideways towards me, lips pressed together into a frown. I returned the glance, then bent over Oswald and asked, "Ozzie, if you want to make it out of this alive, you'll tell me _exactly_ what happened with Eddie."

"Oh… I don't know," groaned Oswald fretfully. "I'd been working with him for a year; his information was _always_ good and played a large role in my… acquisition of most of Gotham's organized crime business. When the operation got large enough that Batman was starting to pay attention to me, Eddie advised me to hire someone more colorful and interesting than I was; suggested you. He said _you_ could be hard to work with, true—a" he nodded at the Joker, "but as long as I got _her_ on my side—" here he glanced angrily at me—"then it would all work out. Shows how much _he_ knew."

The Joker and I exchanged another look, then the Joker said, "Say, uh… Ozzie. Eddie give you any recommendations for hired snipers, by any chance?"

Oswald winced. "When I needed a gunman to guard that second shipment… yes, he provided a list of names; I picked the one he most strongly recommended."

 _CCTV, my ass_ , I thought, and pressed for more: "Was he the one who told you where our hideout was?"

Penguin stared at me for a second, glanced at the Joker, then back at me, as if he was finally starting to put together that something wasn't right. "Yes," he said slowly. "He said he wanted to make up for his bad advice. That… taking you would _force_ the Joker to cooperate."

That was all we needed to hear. The Joker rose to his feet and I grabbed his elbow. "We need to get out of here _now_ ," I said emphatically.

" _Way_ ahead of you, doll," he said, grabbing my hand. He paused for a split second to look at Oswald, said, "Thanks for the memories, Ozzie," then turned and pulled me out of the office.

I took the lead almost immediately once we were out, and he didn't argue, since I'd definitely found my way through these hallways before. As I worked my way to the exit I'd left through last time with a concussed Batman in tow, we ran into a clown, and I jerked on his arm as we moved past. "Get out and tell the other guys to get the fuck out, too," I shouted over my shoulder, and then we were bursting outside.

The Joker let go of my hand and went ahead at that point, breaking into a swift run and cutting through the alleyway, getting away from the Iceberg, and I followed, not quite able to match his speed and falling behind a bit—enough that when he paused at a car parked along the street and ducked inside, I had a quick, sharp pang of fear that he was about to leave me. The car started, and I increased my pace, expecting it to take off—but no, it sat there idling until I crashed into the passenger seat, then the tires peeled out as the Joker floored the accelerator and put some distance between us and the Iceberg.

Still, we were barely out of the blast range when the thing went up behind us, the explosion rippling out enough to make the car wobble. I twisted around, staring at Penguin's once-prized establishment as it went up in flames, and the Joker, watching the smoke billow up against the pale night sky in the mirror, whooped with unrestrained, appreciative laughter.

We were out and had survived the Oswald Cobblepot fiasco relatively unscathed. That didn't mean it was over—I got the sense that we'd barely scratched the surface of what had happened that night—but now that I was relatively safe, I realized that the beating I'd taken throughout the night was taking its toll. The Joker was at the wheel; I trusted him to get us somewhere secure. I barely had time to curl up in my seat and turn my face towards him before, impossibly and almost instantaneously, feeling safe for the first time in weeks, I fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duuuuuuuuun! This chapter brought to you by an unexpected snow day. Work ended early and I was able to devote time to getting this installment polished and pretty. (It was a particularly satisfying one to write, for the record. Full circle. Also Harley got to go full-on Natural Born Killers, which was satisfying.) J and Harley are safe- more or less- but there's still one more chapter to go, still some loose ends to tie up.
> 
> Before this is over and you all wander off, I just want to say- it's been a busy, writer's block-hindered winter, and I'm looking at a spring that looks to be even busier (I appear to be planning to live on my own for the first time, there's another niece/nephew on the way, work is getting more demanding)... and yet somehow, I'm going into it with more inspiration and motivation to write than ever, and I'm pretty sure that all of you are to thank for that. 
> 
> On that note- you'd think I'd be winding down along with the story, but the Batman 'verse has gripped me by the hair again (something to do with marathoning the movies and devouring the scripts, I don't know, go figure) which means there are more stories in the works right now. Which... is a good thing? I suppose only time will tell. Bottom line is that hopefully after this story I'll have something else for you pretty quickly.
> 
> I'm off to write more. Thanks for reading. :)


	22. aftermath

Eddie had been playing us all from the beginning, of course.

We kicked down his door the next day to find that he'd vanished without a trace, leaving behind all of his shit. I looked around for anything, some indication that he was coming back, even a gloating "ha ha" note left in the off chance that we'd come looking for him, but found nothing.

Resignedly, I glanced over to where the Joker was flipping through one of Eddie's multiple books. "What do you want to do?" I asked when he finally cast his eyes sideways to me.

He glanced around the room, tossed the book to the side, and said, "Didjya bring any lighter fluid?"

We waited around in the shadows beneath the bridge across the street, watching the emergency vehicles show up and try to save the building. They gave up after about an hour, and J and I watched it burn and crumble. I put my head against his shoulder when the building finally fell, and he let me, going as far as to coil his arm loosely around me.

The rest we pieced together over the next few days. Cobblepot had confirmed that Eddie set him on our trail to begin with, that he was the reason I'd specifically been targeted for the Penguin's attentions from the beginning, and that made everything else make sense: the information Eddie gave us on Cobblepot being utterly useless, the ease with which he was able to give me Gunther's location, Gunther's involvement in the _first_ place despite him proving to be a subpar shooter—Eddie's goal wasn't to get the Joker killed at that point, we figured, so much as piss him off.

It had all been about that last night for him, in more ways than one. Not only had he planted a bomb that I assume he hoped would wipe out the majority of contenders for king of Gotham's underworld, but it had provided the kind of distraction for Batman that Oswald could only _dream_ of. Gotham's Natural History Museum took a hit that night while we were all tied up in the Diamond District— _someone_ made off with millions of dollars' worth of historical artifacts.

"Leave it to a fucking nerd to steal _artifacts_ ," I snorted when I saw the news.

What kept me up at night, though, was that the bomb in the Iceberg could well have worked. We could have stayed, seen the fight through to its conclusion, and then been ripped apart by the blast—only Eddie apparently hadn't figured that the Joker and I were a chatty pair and that Oswald was a whiner. His name came up, something smelled wrong, and we were out of there.

As it turned out, if Eddie's ultimate goal was to take us all out, then the explosion was more or less a complete failure. It destroyed the Iceberg Lounge, true, but as it happened, Batman was able to recover just in time to lug Oswald's dead weight out of there and to a neighboring rooftop. He locked Oswald to an air conditioning unit and got the hell out. The police rescued Oswald later that night.

Well, "rescued." They held onto him for questioning so they could figure out what the hell had happened that night, and he must not have held up too well, because last I heard he was being held at Blackgate awaiting trial. They charged him with _insurance fraud_. I laughed so hard when I heard that that I couldn't even manage to choke out an explanation to J.

Overall, there were minimal casualties. The patrons of the Iceberg had wisely decided that they had better just leave as soon as the Joker had showed up looking for me, and other than the people already dead from the fight that had broken out between our guys and Penguin's guys, no one had gotten caught in the explosion. I felt a little bit of vicious satisfaction when I found out, because Eddie may have pulled the wool over our eyes throughout the whole ordeal, but his grand finale certainly fell flat.

Pamela and Jonathan had heeded my warnings about Batman and had gotten well away from the club before it exploded—I called her later that night to check on her, and a few days later, I dropped by to fill her in on the whole thing. She was less than pleased.

"You're telling me that not only did that rat fuck _intentionally_ get you kidnapped and strung up like some hapless heroine in a trashy eighties horror film, but he also knowingly endangered me and Jonathan?" she asked, her tone eerily level as she narrowed her eyes at me over her glass of wine.

I held up my hands defensively. "Red, did anyone ever tell you that you have a way of making the messenger feel like she's about to get slaughtered?"

"A lot of people, actually," she said, still looking scary and meditative. Her brooding session was interrupted by her phone ringing, and we both glanced at it, startled.

"How many people do you have calling you?" I asked warily. She was still more or less off the grid; aside from me and Jonathan, I didn't think she was in contact with many people, and I doubted it was Jonathan calling.

"Not many," she said, sounding annoyed, and picked up. "Hello?"

I heard a tinny voice from the other end, and judging from the way Pam's eyes narrowed immediately into blazing green slits, I had a suspicion of who it might be. "Only because you owe her an explanation, but you mark my words, we're going to have a _discussion_ later," she said, then passed the phone wordlessly to me.

I took it. "Hello?"

"Hello, Harley."

It was Eddie, and the audible smugness in his tone made me immediately feel like punching something. I growled into the speaker, and he laughed. "Oh, come on, don't do that. You're safe and sound—"

"Yeah, no thanks to you!"

"What are you _talking_ about?" he asked, sounding too perfectly puzzled for the question to be genuine—as limited as my acquaintance with him was, I knew the guy wasn't going to be that obvious about not knowing something unless he was faking it. "I sent our lovely Pam to make sure you got out in time."

"Bullshit. You got greedy and wanted to expand your net, kill as many of your competitors as you could. You thought we'd all keep each other busy till the timer wore down, didn't you?"

"That is a wild and unfounded accusation."

"You didn't reckon on us scattering once your name came up and we figured out that there was something fishy," I went on, "but hey, tough luck. Maybe you'll get us next time. You know, if we haven't skinned you alive by then."

"I'm sensing a frankly unwarranted amount of hostility."

" _Unwarranted_? Aside from everything else—you tried to _kill_ him, Eddie."

"God, you really are head over heels, aren't you? It was just a little bomb; he's managed to survive them before. Anyway, he probably deserved it, don't you think? Or have you completely forgotten about that night you got arrested, the explosion in Maroni's warehouse?"

Somehow, it didn't surprise me that he knew about that. "Our business is _our_ business, Eddie. You're an outsider. You can frame it as some chivalric balancing gesture if you want, but I don't buy it."

"Oh, suit yourself," he sighed. "I just wanted to check in on you."

"You mean you just wanted to gloat," I said, getting up and going to the window as I spoke, glaring out of it as though I'd find him sitting in a car across the street.

"Since when are the two mutually exclusive?"

"Are you still in Gotham?" I asked abruptly.

He gave a low, amused chuckle. "What do _you_ think?"

"I think you're lying low after the museum hit, but I also think you'll be back," I said directly. "You've made an impression; I don't see you abandoning all that groundwork."

"Are you nearing your point?"

"Yep, and it's this: when you get back to Gotham, you'd better damn well watch your back."

"Thanks for the warning," he said dryly, and then the line clicked as he disconnected.

I turned and tossed the phone back to Pam, saying as I did, "You might want to check for surveillance equipment. He's not in Gotham, so I don't know how else he'd know that I was with you right now."

Pam's eyes narrowed; she glanced around the room, and out loud, she said, "Edward Nygma, if I find a _single_ bug in my home, Harley won't be the only one gunning for you when you get back."

The whole conversation had made me feel a little bit sick, but Pam's outrage about it combined with the fact that I'd have help if I ever _did_ run into Eddie again made me feel a little better. Shortly thereafter, I went home to share the details of the conversation with the Joker.

After the incident at the Iceberg, the Joker had moved us to what I believed to be an old toy shop in a mostly abandoned district on the west side of town. It was one of those older buildings where the second story was set up to house the shop owners, so it suited our needs for the time being.

He hadn't been happy about the loss of our old hideout. I gathered that he'd returned home shortly after everyone cleared out—there were two cop cars there already, and the police had just started to realize that this wasn't an average Gotham shootout. They'd called for backup, but backup didn't arrive in time to stop the Joker from gunning all four officers down and going back into the hideout to collect everything he didn't want condemned to an evidence room for the rest of eternity. As it turned out, he didn't consider any of _my_ stuff essential.

I was pretty furious about that when I woke up in our new safehouse all gritty from the night before, wanting nothing more than a shower and to wear my pajamas for a straight week. "You couldn't even grab me a change of _clothes_?" I'd demanded as he ducked the teddy bears and various other toys left abandoned in the shop that I was hurling at him in order to relieve my feelings. Probably just to get me to stop, he promised to take me out to get replacements. He probably hadn't intended to actually follow through, but given that I aggressively started wearing _his_ clothes in the absence of mine, he found the time to take me out on a shopping (stealing) spree the very next night. He even gave me a new revolver to replace the one that had been taken by the cops.

Now, I found him at his desk, staring at his laptop screen like it had just dumped a whole host of nuclear launch codes into his lap. It occurred to me that if he'd _actually_ happened upon nuclear launch codes, it probably wouldn't end well, so, Eddie temporarily forgotten, I asked, "Uh, J? What're you looking at?"

He glanced at me, then back to the screen as he waved me over. "C'mere. I wanna show you something." Warily, wondering what I was up to now, I approached him, and he pulled me down into his lap, locked one arm around my waist, and pointed past me at the screen. "Did you know I've got a fan club?"

"Oh, shit," I said, leaning forward to look. "Are you serious? You're _serious._ " He made an affirmative noise, and I grabbed the mouse. "Hold on."

"Hey," he objected, but I was already Googling my own name.

Turned out I had my own share of fans, but given that most of them were forty-something year-old dudes whose main hobby seemed to consist of drawing me in the scantiest clothing imaginable, I was less enthusiastic about it. "What the fuck is that?" I asked J, pointing at the screen. "Like… an upside-down half-laced corset? Hot pants? What purpose does that serve? Those aren't even my _colors_."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, your fan club sucks, mine is great," he said, waving a dismissive hand and closing out the tab to get back to the website devoted to him.

"You're not kidding," I grumbled, "the art they've done of you is _awesome_."

"I wonder if I can get them to cut their faces," he mused, and when he caught me staring at him, he glanced from the screen to me and explained, "If I tell them it shows solidarity, I bet I could make 'em do it."

"I mean, _probably_ ," I said, glancing back at the computer. I stared at the screen as he scrolled idly through the forums, and I noted, "This is pretty cool, you know. It's a resource at the very least."

"Uhh- _huh_ ," he agreed absently.

I shook my head, suddenly remembering why I'd come looking for him to begin with. "Shit, I almost forgot. I went to see Pam and Eddie must have known I was there, cause he called her phone so he could talk to me."

"Eddie?"

"Yeah. It looks like he got out of Gotham, but I guarantee you, he's going to come back eventually."

"Huh," he said, still focused on the computer. I turned to look at him.

"So… what are we going to do when he does?"

"Huh?" I stared pointedly at him, and finally, albeit briefly, he tore his eyes from the screen and looked irritably at me. "To… Eddie? I dunno. Set him on fire or something. _Shoot_ him. Kinda busy right now, Harley."

I stared at him in disbelief for a second. "You. _You,_ who held a grudge against me until I'd forgotten you _had_ it. You sent me to _Arkham_ for handcuffing you to a damn bed, but Eddie tries to get you _killed_ and you're too busy to plot revenge?"

"Harley, I have a _fan club,_ " he said, looking at me like he couldn't _believe_ I wasn't grasping the significance of it.

It was the look that did it; I burst out laughing and hopped off of his lap. "Okay, _fine_ , weirdo," I said, bending to kiss him on the temple—he made a face, but was refocused on the computer already and so tolerated it without even swatting at me.

Sure, the Joker's lack of interest in getting revenge on Eddie was a bit of a downer, but he had enough to think about, and really, I didn't need his help. Edward Nygma had tried to tear down my life, he'd endangered me and everyone I loved, and you bet your ass I was nursing one hell of a grudge as a result. If the man dared to show his face in Gotham again, I was going to hunt him down and personally burn his life to the ground.

But for now, he was gone, and I didn't have to worry about him. For the time being, I had more important things to worry about—like improving my gaming skills so that Ace would quit talking shit. Some of his skinhead friends were taking cues from him, and if I was going to spend more time around the henchmen, I couldn't have that. I left the room whistling, going downstairs to join the guys.

It wouldn't last—it never did—but for the time being, I was happy, I was at peace, and the Joker was safe.

That was enough.

_**The End** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Where do we go from here?" is the question I've gotten from a lot of you in varying forms as it became apparent that this story was winding down (and was a question I was asking myself a lot over the past few months). "Is this the end of the Bad Jokes series?" I mean, given how terrible I am at ever saying goodbye to a set of characters, no, it's not, and I don't foresee an official ending in the near future. I do, however, think that the format will necessarily change.
> 
> The Ringmaster was a wonderful experience because it pulled me from a long, lazy period and made me commit to plotting and writing something, but as I worked on the draft, I realized that the reason it took me so long to even start was that I wanted to say so much and was a bit lost figuring out how. The problem, of course, was that I wanted to jam a bunch of ideas into one story where they didn't belong, and though I think I was mostly able to trim things down into a coherent story, it made me realize that I need to approach this series differently from now on. In the future, I intend to work less on novel-length stories that take me five years to get around to writing and instead focus on more shorter, more self-contained installments, like Malady, that I can write and post more frequently. I'm always going to love longer fanfiction, and it's likely that another one will pop up in the Bad Jokes series before this is all over, but I think it serves stand-alone stories better than series.
> 
> SO, all that said, I've got that Poison Ivy (featuring Harley and Crane) side-story in the works (and I estimate it'll be somewhere around 20k). I've started the first draft of the next Pastimes story, for those of you who enjoy watching Emma get put through a wringer. And you can bet your ass Harley's not going to forget what Eddie tried to do to her and hers, so between that and the ongoing dramatics that come from trying to maintain a relationship with the Joker... they'll be back, too. (Probably sooner in one or two prompted drabbles on the blog than they will be here, but still.) With luck, one or more of these will be up soon.
> 
> In the meantime, I promised earlier that I would be making my original fiction easily accessible to everyone. As of now, it's just the one novel, but that'll change in time-- [here](http://www.sarawynne.com) is my website, where you can download the novel for free. Take a look if you're jonesing for something to read and enjoy supernatural neo-noir low-rent detective stories featuring vampires who will not stop squabbling.
> 
> All right, that's it for me. You've all been excellent- supportive, encouraging, enthusiastic, leaving me food for thought in the form of questions on the blog... it's been a lot of fun, and I hope all of you feel the same. Till next time. :)


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